House of the Seven
by Freelance Fanfictioner
Summary: After a winter and a war, Tyrion returns to Westeros and finds Sansa in the most unexpected of places. Both agree that their marriage must be set aside, but the road to freedom might not lead quite where they thought it would.
1. Chapter 1

_It is nice to be back in Westeros at the head of a winning army, _mused Tyrion. The Targaryen forces have conquered the Seven Kingdoms in one glorious sweep, and in many places the dragon banners, red on black, were unearthed and unfurled as soon as people heard of the coming of Queen Daenerys. Of course, the Lannisters and Tyrells and most of their bannermen - Tarly, Rowan and others - fought, as did other houses who had a bone to pick with the Targaryens, in particular those who sided with Robert Baratheon during his rebellion. But those who had no cause to love the Lannisters - the river lords and the northmen, and even the two-faced Freys - accepted the dragon queen without so much as unsheathing a sword. As for Dorne, they were the first to bend the knee. Well, after the tragic death of Myrcella, the Dornishmen knew they would never be forgiven by the Lannisters, so they wouldn't have had much choice anyway.

Tyrion had won his place of honor as the queen's ally any counselor by coming to her and siding with her before she even revealed her intention to reclaim the throne of her ancestors. He pledged his life to her service, and although he was a Lannister himself, after hearing him out Daenerys Targaryen decided she has sufficient grounds to trust him. He had since ample opportunity to show this trust was justified - he became a valuable source of information about many of the lords and houses and alliances in Westeros, and his cunning made him especially good at developing strategies.

He fought in some battles, too, and although none of his wounds were life-threatening, his left arm was in a sling when he rode through the gates of King's Landing on the magnificent horse Queen Daenerys had granted him as a special boon. The stallion was bred and raised by the Dothraki, and trained to fight no worse than the average Westerosi knight. _A handsome horse, _thought Tyrion. _It merits a handsome rider. _

Strange. Now that he thought of it, last time he made a triumphant entrance to King's Landing he had his arm in a sling as well. _But then my nose was still whole. I had better hope this time I will leave this vile city without losing any other body parts. _

The queen invited him to sup with her in private that night. The fare was simple but satisfying - a stew of lamb with peas and carrots, warm bread, sharp yellow cheese, baked apples stuffed with raisins. Tyrion savored every bite. He never acquired a taste for jellied dog's brains or slug stew - the delicacies of Slaver's Bay.

"Well, my lord," said the queen, "Casterly Rock is now your seat." Tyrion nodded, and a cloud passed over his face. His father, brother and sister were all dead, and he couldn't say he felt any great loss there - even about Jaime. Some things were hard to forgive. Joffrey's death, which happened even earlier, was a blessing too - the boy was so mad and cruel he put Aerys Targaryen to shame. But Tommen and Myrcella... they were sweet children. They were born out of incest and betrayal, but none of this reflected on their innocent selves. Tyrion grieved the evil intrigues that led to their deaths.

"I look forward to seeing the Rock again, Your Grace," said Tyrion, "the happier part of my life passed there."

"And you shall have many more happy years there," said the queen, "but before... Lord Tyrion, I have a request to make of you."

"The queen needs not request. She commands."

Daenerys nodded. "It is my wish to become acquainted with the Seven Kingdoms, the land of my fathers, before I set up my residence in King's Landing and devote myself to matters of state. In particular I wish to see the north and the legendary castle of Winterfell. I heard it is a magnificent place."

"Was magnificent," said Tyrion, "you surely know, Your Grace, that Winterfell now lies in ruins. It is a great pity."

"I know. But ruins can be rebuilt. And on this score I shall require your counsel. I want you to ride north with me, and see the country with me, and suggest how what was broken should be mended."

"I will do what I can, Your Grace," Tyrion inclined his head in agreement, "Casterly Rock can wait." Actually, he rather wished to see the north again. He had always wanted that, since that unfortunate visit during which Robert asked Ned Stark to become his Hand.

"Casterly Rock is a grand place, too," said Daenerys, "but it asks for the presence of a lady. Is it your wish to marry now?"

If the question had come from anyone else, Tyrion would suspect he is being mocked. But the queen was just, kind and wise beyond her years. "Perhaps Her Grace does not know," he said slowly, "I _am_ married."

The queen looked at him in surprise. "I never knew that. Married? To whom?"

The name had not passed Tyrion's lips for years. "Sansa Stark," he said.

Daenerys frowned. "How come you never told me this? Sansa Stark... she was the daughter of Eddard Stark, was she not? And he was in league with Robert Baratheon, he fought against my valiant brother."

"I assure you Sansa had nothing to do with that, Your Grace," said Tyrion, "she was no more than a child when we wed, and the marriage was decreed by my father. He wished to claim the north by allying house Stark with the Lannisters. I haven't seen Sansa since Joffrey's death. For all I know, she might be dead as well."

"The marriage was decreed by your father? You didn't want to marry her?" the queen asked shrewdly.

"Sansa was a sweet and beautiful lady. She had a gentle heart and pure soul," said Tyrion, "but I... I knew how she would feel about marrying me. This made no difference, however. The Starks were the key to the north, and Sansa was their last remaining child, to the best of our knowledge. So I accepted my father's will and married her and tried to do my best to make her life bearable. I can hardly say I succeeded. The most I remember of Sansa is the look of misery upon her face. Of course, I am not solely to blame for that," his mouth twisted bitterly, "it might also have something to do with the fact that her entire family was killed."

"Do you intend to look for her now?" Tyrion could tell this question had come from the curious young girl fascinated by the tale of someone else's life, not from the queen who had made her enemies tremble.

"If I planned to, Your Grace, I wouldn't even know where to begin." _I should probably try to find her, though. _As the last remaining Lannister of Casterly Rock, it was now his duty to beget an heir. Someone somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms was bound to be desperate or greedy enough to have him. Perhaps he should offer himself to that daughter of Stannis Baratheon, the young maiden whose face was disfigured by greyscale. _Together, we would look like a proper grotesquerie. _But first, of course, he would have to look for Sansa and either find her and annul their marriage, or prove that she is dead.

Sansa. Despite all the time that had passed, her memory evoked a certain wistfulness in him, as of a word unspoken, a song unsung. Somehow, he felt things could have worked out differently between them. _Yes, in a different world where I would be a tall, handsome, gallant knight, and not the son, brother and uncle of those who ruined her life. _She was three and ten when they parted; if she is alive, she would be seventeen now, a woman grown, and who knows how she had lived all this time. She might even have married again, he thought suddenly. Well, if that is so, she is up to an unpleasant surprise.

At one crossroads a couple of days away from King's Landing, the queen and her retinue encountered a small sept, a point of quiet and prayer for travelers. A little hut was located near the sept, with grey smoke curling up from its chimney - no doubt it was the dwelling of some holy man or woman who tended the sept and offered travelers some food and drink.

"You would do well to stop and pray here, Your Grace," Tyrion advised quietly to the young queen. He was not excessively pious, although he did light candles for the gods sometimes, and the Targaryens never expressed much reverence either for the old gods or the new; but Queen Daenerys should do differently if she wishes to win the love of her smallfolk, and she knew it. She nodded in agreement and gave an order for the column of riders to stop. The queen, Tyrion and a couple of others descended from their horses and entered the sept. It was quiet and clean and half-dark in there, and the smell of smoke and incense hung in the air. Daenerys knelt in front of the Mother's altar and lit a candle. Her face was unexpectedly earnest, and Tyrion could guess what she is praying for.

He knelt as well, in front of the Warrior, and lit a candle, then got up to his feet. He wanted to pray, but didn't know what for. The war was over and he was alive and his enemies dead, and he was the lord of Casterly Rock as he had wished, but a strange emptiness reigned in his heart all the same.

A septa in long grey robes was working near the altar of the Maiden, sweeping the floor and picking up stubs of candles that have burned out. Her clothing was loose and drab and a large hood covered her hair and threw a shadow over her face, but something in her movements and in the way she carried herself convinced Tyrion she must be young and comely. There was also something inexplicably familiar about her, and although he realized the impropriety of this, he could not tear his eyes away from her.

And then a ray of sunlight fell upon her from one of the small windows, illuminating her face, and Tyrion gasped with astonishment. She heard his sharp intake of breath and turned around, and he knew she recognized him as well. _How could she not?_ She turned pale as if she had seen a ghost, and the tray with the candle stubs fell from her hands. Bits of congealed wax scattered all over the floor.

He took a step towards her. "My lady," he said in a hoarse voice.

"My lord," she said uncertainly, her eyes wide.

The queen got up from her knees and looked at them curiously. "What is going on, Lord Tyrion?" she asked. "Do you know this holy woman?"

"Your Grace," said Tyrion, taking a deep breath, "this is most extraordinary. Allow me to present Sansa Stark of Winterfell, the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark... and my lady wife."


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa led him through the neatly swept little front yard, where a few fat chickens were busily pecking around, into the wooden hut. Tyrion looked about him in disbelief.

"And you have lived here for the past three years?" he asked in wonder.

Sansa nodded. "Me and Septa Genella. She is just gone to the village beyond that hill, for some new milk and freshly baked bread. The folk here supplied us with all we needed throughout the winter."

Tyrion looked around again, noticing more details. There were two narrow hard-looking beds in the hut, a stove, a row of shiny copper pots hanging from one of the walls, a crude wooden table and two stools. From the little window he could see the neat rows of the vegetable garden behind the house, green and thriving in the warm spring sun.

"It must have been a dull life," he finally said. Sansa's eyes were downcast, but suddenly she looked up at him, more confident.

"It was better than the fate that awaited me in the Vale," she said.

"The Vale?" Tyrion was perplexed. "You meant to go to the Vale?"

"I _did_ go there, with Petyr Baelish. He spirited me away, right after - after Joffrey's wedding," said Sansa.

Tyrion looked at her in amazement. "_Littlefinger _spirited you away?" But of course, surprising as it was, it made far more sense than her running away all on her own. "With what design? For that bastard must have had a hidden purpose, if I know anything at all about him."

"He convinced me that he has my best interests at heart, that he wants to help me for my mother's sake," said Sansa, "but..." her voice faltered, "he really intended to... to..." she struggled for words. "He was in love with my mother once," she said eventually, "he... he thought he could have me, as he never had _her_."

Tyrion swore softly under his breath. An innocent, guileless, unprotected beautiful girl was easy prey - although in Sansa's case, this was true only in part. "You ran away from him," he stated. She nodded in agreement. "Have you pledged yourself to the Faith, then?"

Sansa looked straight at him. "I could not do that," she said, "I am married... as my lord will recall."

"Indeed," he said, and held her gaze. She had thrown back her grey hood now, and her braided auburn hair fell across one of her shoulders. Her deep blue eyes were wary, but at the same time there was peace in them such as Tyrion had not remembered, and she had grown, if it was possible, even more beautiful. The smoothly flowing curves of her body were difficult to miss even through the roughspun grey septa's dress. "In fact," he went on, "it is precisely our marriage I would wish to discuss, my lady."

She looked reluctant but resigned. "I would have thought as much, my lord."

"You might know that, with the death of all my kin, I am now lord of Casterly Rock," said Tyrion, "I have gained my birthright. Now I need a son, an heir. I scarcely need to tell you what this means regarding us."

A look of fear appeared in Sansa's eyes, but she spoke bravely. "You wish to consummate our marriage, so that you can beget sons."

Tyrion was surprised in the extreme at the notion. "The thought had not crossed my mind," he assured her, "I intend to annul our marriage, so that we can both be free."

Sansa seemed to be relieved and uncomfortable at once. "I have thought of this too, my lord," she said, "and I do not believe it can be done as easily as you imagine."

"What do you mean?" he frowned. "Our marriage was always in name only. We never truly lived together as husband and wife."

"Yes, but to set this marriage aside, we would need to stand in front of a Council of Faith, and they would require other reasons but mere non-consummation. I have actually asked Septa Genella about this. There was, for instance, no continuous denial of spousal rights," she blushed slightly, "as you only broached the matter once. Non-consummation coupled with mistreatment could be a valid reason for annulment, but you never treated me badly." Did he imagine this, or was there a faint hint of warmth in her voice now? "As a matter of fact, only later I realized to what pains you have gone to ensure my well-being. When we were first married, I'm afraid I was too young and too deeply immersed in grief to appreciate this. It wasn't until years after that I learned to recognize disinterested kindness, and understand its true value."

This made Tyrion feel absurdly gratified. "I did what little I could to prevent my dear family from tormenting you further," he said, "but Sansa, you were _forced_ to marry me. Surely that is reason enough to set our union aside."

"Perhaps it would be, if I were dragged into the sept and made to say my words at swordpoint," she said, "but there were witnesses aplenty who watched me walk in and say my vows willingly."

"As willingly as a trapped animal gnaws off its leg," Tyrion said impatiently. "Look, my lady, I know you must want to end this farce of a marriage."

"I cannot deceive the Faith," Sansa said solemnly. Tyrion sighed. He had almost forgotten how devout she always was. "As for you not being the man of my choosing..." he almost snorted. _This is mildly put. _"Well, in a way I _did_ have a choice. I could marry your cousin Lancel, or someone else your father would deem fit. I preferred you, my lord," she paused, "and I'm afraid that in the Seven Kingdoms, so many maids are wed to men who wouldn't be their first choice, or who were chosen by their father or guardian, that it is too common to be grounds for annulment."

Tyrion pulled out his last card. "I can confess I whored while we lived under the same roof," he said, "it ought to appease the septons, and it wouldn't be a lie."

If he thought to shock her, he was very much mistaken. "Do you mean the affair you carried on with my maid Shae?" she asked almost indifferently, rendering him mute. "That was too long ago to be taken into account now, and in the past years we lived separately, neither of us knowing anything about the other. I'm afraid that if you intend to argue along _that_ line, you would have to supply some... fresher evidence, my lord."

Tyrion looked at her. And looked. "So what is it that you are saying?" he finally asked.

"Just this - for now, I can see no quick way to annul our marriage," she said. He could tell she was not thrilled by the prospect, and neither was he, but something stirred at the pit of his stomach. He could not quite define it or describe it, except that it made his heart beat faster.

"Will you be coming with us, my lady?" he asked. "Her Grace seems to feel very benevolently towards you, and earlier expressed hope for the dawn of a new era between houses Targaryen and Stark. And by strange coincidence, we are now heading for Winterfell, to plan its rebuilding. I imagine you would want to take part in this."

For the first time, a smile appeared on Sansa Stark's face. "I would," she said.


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa stood in the middle of the empty courtyard, gasping for air, and tears streamed silently down her cheeks. She knew, of course, that Winterfell was burned, but in her mind the image of the castle never changed. She remembered it as it was before, with her mother and father, and Bran climbing the tall buildings and turrets and towers and walls with Rickon looking up at him wistfully and cheering on, and Arya laughing as she ran away, muddy and exuberant, from the admonitions of Septa Mordane, and the smell of fresh bread wafting from the kitchens, and the neighing of horses and barking of dogs and the clang of steel at the forge and in the courtyards where Robb and Jon trained.

But there was nothing now. All was empty, desolate, ruined.

Footsteps sounded behind her. "This place is as mysteriously beautiful as legends tell," said the young queen. Sansa hastily wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"I wish you had seen Winterfell in its former days, Your Grace."

"It will be rebuilt," Queen Daenerys said gently yet confidently.

"Do you truly think so, Your Grace?"

"Of course. You shall see to it yourself."

"Me?" Sansa was startled.

"Who better than you? You are of the Stark blood. You grew up here. You know how all used to be."

"Yes," Sansa agreed hesitantly, "but... there will be a lot of planning and calculations and - "

"Yes, there will be a lot of work," said the queen. But it was not work Sansa feared. On the contrary, after having lived three years as a helper to Septa Genella, Sansa wondered how she could ever fill her days before, having nothing to do but needlework and a little strumming of the harp. With the septa, she was always busy tending to the house and garden, washing and mending clothes, taking care of the sept, visiting the sick in the village or helping women who have just had a baby, offering meals and drinks to weary travelers... she had no wish to return to a life of idleness now.

"I'm afraid I will be no good at giving instructions to builders, Your Grace."

"You shall have your lord here," promised the queen, "Tyrion is good with numbers and sketches and drawing plans of buildings."

"I am sure my lord will want to return to Casterly Rock before long," said Sansa, her eyes downcast. The queen was silent for a little while before speaking next.

"I am aware of your... situation," she said, "you would wish for a way to end this marriage, isn't that so?"

The answer should have been obvious, but the words that came out of Sansa's mouth surprised even her. "I... I don't know, Your Grace."

The queen said nothing, but inexplicably it seemed to Sansa she was faintly pleased with this answer.

In truth, Sansa now knew she did not do justice to Tyrion - probably could not do him justice when they were first married. She had just lost almost all her family, she was frightened, she was helpless and vulnerable and he was a Lannister - although even then, deep in her heart, she knew he was never truly one of them. She could not trust him then, but later she realized he was most likely the one true friend she ever had in King's Landing.

As for his looks... well, he did not grow any handsomer, that was certain, but in her years with the septa she had seen and tended to a large number of men who were wounded in the war. Some she had managed to nurse back to health, some she saw off to the land of the dead, having done all that was in her power to ease their agony. In the past three years she had seen more scars, stumps, empty eye sockets and disfigured bodies than she cared to remember. She was no longer apt to simply stand and stare at Tyrion and think how ugly he is. She had grown out of her girlish mingled fascination and horror that used to overcome her at the sight of him.

All the same, it was obvious their situation must be resolved one way or another. If there was no lawful way to undo their union, they could not go on as they had before. It wasn't right or fair to Tyrion - but this would mean she'd have to... to... to truly live with him as his wife. She blushed. She still did not know whether she would ever be able to do_ that_.

Meanwhile, the quiet around her was gradually replaced by sounds; their party entered the castle gates. Some led the horses to what remained of the stables, others debated the condition of various buildings and whether they can be put to use. Groups of northmen arrived at the gate as well, with supplies and firewood and timber for building. Some of them Sansa remembered from her childhood, and it was a joy to look upon their half-familiar faces again and hear their greetings to the daughter of Lord Eddard.

In the middle of the bustle, Tyrion walked towards her. His face was solemn. "I am sorry, my lady," he said. "I remember Winterfell from the time I visited here. It is a grievous loss, but I hope that with extensive repair the place can be restored."

"The walls are intact," replied Sansa, running a hand over the rough grey stone.

"Yes," said Tyrion, looking up. "And mighty walls they are, too." He noticed a very steep and narrow flight of stairs that was curved into the wall, and made to step onto it.

"Careful, my lord," cautioned Sansa, "the stairs are slippery with melting snow."

"Don't worry," said Tyrion, "I might not look it, but I am quite a good climber. In fact..." he held out his hand for her, "would you like to try and go up as well?"

Sansa never climbed the walls of Winterfell as much as Arya and Bran did, but now, somehow, she felt she ought to do that in their stead. Hesitantly, she took Tyrion's hand and slowly, cautiously began to go up with him. Once she felt she was about to lose her balance, and had to grip his fingers tighter to keep from falling, but eventually, flushed and breathless, she found herself on top of the wall, surveying the view she had missed so much.

There were still patches of belated snow, but already the green was winning. Soon, everything would come alive with the breath of spring just as it had in the south. A sweet scent wafted in the air, reminiscent of unfurling buds and flowers and an early harvest of honey.

"Magnificent," murmured Tyrion, looking over the forests and rivers and mountains, "I am not Bran the Builder, but I promise to do what I can about the reconstruction. Winterfell deserves it."

The name of Bran evoked painful memories in Sansa. "My brother Bran loved to climb these walls, too," she said, "until he fell."

Tyrion studied her face, and his eyes, the green as well as the black, conveyed a deep feeling of uneasiness. "But... you do not know?" he asked quietly.

Sansa felt a prickle of dream. "Know what, my lord?"

He took a deep breath. "Bran did not fall. Jaime pushed him down."

Sansa felt faint; this couldn't be true, it made no sense, but why would he lie about something like that? "Your brother? But... I - I don't understand. Why?"

"The poor boy, it appears, accidentally stumbled into Jaime and Cersei in the middle of their..." the Imp paused, uncomfortably searching for words that wouldn't offend the ears of his lady wife, "their play," he finished. Thankfully, Sansa did not need to ask for explanations on this score. The whole realm now knew the story of abominable incest between the Lannister twins.

"So he... he tried to kill Bran," Sansa covered her face with her hands, the pain tearing at her heart afresh. It was fortunate Tyrion got hold of her arm, or she could have toppled over.

"I am sorry," he said quietly. His brow was knitted together with concern, and Sansa realized she should say something kind to him, something that would tell him that she doesn't blame him. It was not his fault, after all, no more than the deaths of her father and mother and Robb were his fault. And Jaime and Cersei were both dead now, rotting down in the deepest of seven hells together with their father.

"Thank you for telling me," she said, "I... I would rather know the truth, no matter what. Even if it can make no difference now."

Silently, they began their descent. "You have grown taller, my lady," remarked Tyrion when they were back on the ground.

"So have you, my lord," she said. He looked surprised.

"Surely not. Those must be my boots."

"No," Sansa eyed him critically, "no, I suppose you have not exactly grown taller, but you carry yourself in a different manner. Straighter. Like..."

"Like a free man," finished Tyrion Lannister, and smiled.


	4. Chapter 4

"I hope the chambers are to your liking, my lord," said Sansa, "they are a bit sparse, to be sure, but you should find all the necessities here."

"It will do perfectly well," Tyrion assured her.

She was silent for a moment. "This is Arya's old room," she then said, "mine is just across the hall... if you wish to find me."

Well. Tyrion felt somewhat relieved to know that they will not be sleeping in the same room. Sharing a bed with Sansa used to be torment. Bound by his word and his sense of decency, he could not touch her - yet he could not stop wanting to, either. _At least now I can sleep naked, and have the entire bed to myself. _

Be that as it may, a permanent solution to their situation was in order. Now that the war was over, and he had inherited the place his lord father once promised he would never have, all the normal desires woke in his heart again - a true home, a family; a son, his own flesh and blood, an heir to Casterly Rock... first, however, he needed his freedom.

Tyrion reached a decision. He would bestow his favors upon one of the castle's serving wenches and get her with child. This, together with the fact that he and Sansa had never lain together as husband and wife, should be enough to annul their marriage even in the eyes of the most pious, two-faced bunch of septons the Council of Faith could produce. He would care for his child, of course, and make sure his mother never lacked for comforts. Then he could go in search of a suitable bride - some younger daughter of a minor, impoverished house, or some freakishly ugly maid, or whoever would be willing to give her hand to the lord of the Rock, even if he is a grotesque dwarf with a sinister facial scar. Yes, he was going to do that.

And he would never see Sansa again.

The prospect gave him more pain than he cared to admit, but what other option was there for him? Once, Sansa was ready to come to his bed because she felt it was her duty. He refused to go through with the act that would confirm their marriage forever in the sight of gods and men. Did he expect her to come to him because she'd want to?

Obtaining their freedom, therefore, was the one advisable plan. _You will have to provide fresher... evidence. _

He had left his door unbarred and bade the woman to come without knocking. Quietly, he lay in the darkness and waited. She came soon enough. "M'lord?" she called uncertainly.

"In the bed," said Tyrion.

She giggled. "Oh. I didn't notice you, m'lord."

"That is understandable," he replied with a twisted grin. She giggled again, and pulled her homespun woolen dress over her head. He could see her in the strip of bright moonlight that fell through the window. Her name was Ella, or Bella, he didn't quite remember, and she worked in the kitchens. She could be no more than twenty years old, plump and pretty and good-natured, and her hair was always dusted with flour. It didn't take a lot of coaxing to get her to come to his chambers.

She slid under the blankets next to him, and he put a hand on her ample breast. Underneath the bedcovers he wore nothing, and it didn't take her a very long time to figure this out, as she began groping at him as well. She was skilled enough, it appeared, but somehow he did not react to her as he normally would to a woman's touch; he felt surprised and awkward.

Perhaps it would work better if he pleasured her first. He did, and then tried again, but it was still no good.

"Maybe m'lord could tell me just what he wants," murmured Ella.

_M'lord wants his wife, the lady Sansa Stark. M'lord also wants to be tall and dashing and handsome, and grow his nose back, so that said wife would not flinch away when looking at him. _

Tyrion sighed. "I think I am just tired. I will sleep now. Go and get some sleep as well. Here," he took a gold coin from a small leather pouch on the nightstand. She tried to push it away.

"Why, I did nothing, m'lord. Just had a swell time," perhaps it was unkind, but her giggle began to annoy him.

"I insist," he said, pressing the coin on her. She pocketed it.

"Well, m'lord will know where to find me," she said, "in the kitchens most of the day, kneading bread or scrubbing pots and kettles."

After she was gone, Tyrion felt more awake than ever. He was now almost sorry he met Sansa again. He felt a rush of annoyance. _She should want out of this marriage more than I do, so why can't she just tell some busybody of a septon that I used to beat her. _Or that he had unnatural desires... yes, that would do well. Just about everything about him was unnatural, so it would be easy to believe. It wasn't fair to put the annulment of their marriage solely in his responsibility. He wanted her, and even now, when time has passed and seasons have changed and old hopes were clearly seen in all their futility, it was difficult to let go. _Let go? How can you let go of what you never had, dwarf?_

He put on his cloak and went out. It was very cold, but somehow the spring was in the air anyway, and it felt good to walk and breathe in the clear fresh night breeze. His wanderings brought him to a place where white trees with red leaves stood in a circle, and it took him a moment to notice the slender figure in a dark warm cloak that was kneeling in front of the old gods of the North.

Upon hearing his steps, Sansa got up from her knees and turned around slowly, and her expression was something he had never seen before - pure joy and wonder.

"They are alive," she whispered, "the castle was burned, but the godswood remained."

Tyrion walked closer and reverently ran a hand over the white bark of a heart tree. "I'm not sure these _can_ burn," he said in a hushed voice, "there is magic in them, I can feel it."

"My father used to come here to pray," told Sansa, "no one dared to disturb him while he was here, in front of the gods, no matter how long he remained in the godswood. When I close my eyes, I can still see him here... right here. So calm and peaceful, so focused... but why are you out at this hour, my lord?"

_I tried to bed a kitchen wench but couldn't get my cock up because somehow, your face kept appearing in front of me. _No, that's not the way to talk to your lady wife, a highborn maid who nearly became a septa.

"I could not sleep," he said truthfully, "and neither could you, it seems."

"I wanted to pray," said Sansa, "here, I feel that all the old gods are watching over me. That they are _in_ me."

"They say so of the Seven as well - that they are all aspects of one God, and that each aspect can be found in every man and woman. The Father and Mother, the Maiden and the Crone, the Smith and the Warrior... even the Stranger, he who has no face. But of course," he remembered, "I should not be telling you this. You must have spent a great portion of the past few years reading out of the _Seven-Pointed Star_."

"Yes," Sansa nodded, "but here... here it is stronger, deeper. As if no words are needed, or only few at any rate. If you close your eyes, my lord, you can feel it yourself."

She knelt again and, on impulse, Tyrion did as well. He shut his eyes. _Old gods, _he thought, and somehow he could feel he is seen and listened to. The rustle of red leaves above his head was almost like a whisper, albeit in a tongue he did not understand. _Old gods, _he repeated, but other than this, his mind was empty. _Show me the way, _he finally found the right words, words that could fit anyone, anywhere.

Show me the way.


	5. Chapter 5

There was so much work to do that Tyrion spent whole days in the library, poring over sketches, accounts, letters, books and columns of numbers. At times he walked around the castle, supervising the work that was already in process. His designs and plans were rewarded by a steady hum of labor, the ringing of hammers, the smell of freshly cut wood, and although the mess was tremendous and the inconvenience even greater, it was clear the castle was coming back to life. A long time would pass before it looked as it had in the days of Eddard Stark, but it was no longer the empty, desolate, grim and ghost-haunted place they saw on their first day of arrival.

Queen Daenerys, pleased with the progress but sorely needed in other parts of the realm, was gone after a week, and Tyrion found himself spending more time one on one with his lady wife, simply because there was no one else in the way of company.

One evening, he was so busy at his work he forgot all about supper, and was very surprised to see Sansa in the library, carrying a heavily laden platter.

"My lady," he got up from his seat, abashed, "you needn't have bothered. There are servants for such work."

"I know," she said, setting the platter on the table he hastily cleared by sweeping away a pile of scrolls, an ink pot and a couple of quills. "But there aren't too many servants here yet, and I was at leisure. I don't mind. I've spent a great deal of time doing simple work, with no one to serve me all. Under the septa's instruction, I grew into the habit of doing something for someone, almost every hour of the day."

"That is an admirable habit," Tyrion said sincerely, breaking his bread and dipping it into stew. Since the supper was laid out only for one person, he assumed Sansa has already eaten, and didn't expect her to linger - but she surprised him again by taking the seat opposite of his. She picked up some of the scrolls from the pile he set aside and studied them. Her face brightened.

"This is a plan for the winter gardens!" she exclaimed.

"Yes," he said, "you were very fond of them, were you not? I recall you said so once."

She nodded, deeply concentrated in the sketch. "This plan seems to me very like what used to be... although don't think the ceiling was quite so tall, but I may be mistaken."

"Upon the morrow, we can visit the place where the glass gardens will be reconstructed, and you might tell me just how they were built, to the best of your memory," suggested Tyrion.

"That would be the best, I believe," Sansa nodded again, "you are putting a lot of thought into these works, my lord."

"I like it. It is challenging," said Tyrion, "and I think I was made for this. I mean to say, sitting on councils with backstabbing traitors and fighting wars were necessary occupations at their time... but this kind of quiet work is what I do best."

He looked at her tentatively, concerned that perhaps he is boring her, but Sansa didn't seem to mind listening to him. Next morning, she spent two hours going all over the castle with him, observing the work and listening to his further plans. She didn't have his talent for numbers or design of constructions, but she had the advantage of remembering much better what Winterfell used to be like, even corners which Tyrion never saw before. She also came up with a number of useful and practical suggestions. Tyrion always knew she was cleverer than her ladylike education allowed her to exhibit.

At one point, Sansa looked around wistfully, and a melancholy expression appeared on her face.

"I wish at least someone were here with me to see what is being done," she said, "but all are gone. Mother and Father, Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon... even Jon Snow. Winterfell needs a Stark, but I am only a woman."

"You may have sons," said Tyrion, "the blood of Starks will live on in them, and they may have a home in Winterfell."

He meant this as a consolation, but instantly regretted his remark, because awkward silence fell between them following it. Both became, again, very much aware of the fact that they have reached a dead end. In order to allow the houses of Lannister and Stark to live on, they would need either to annul their marriage - Sansa still insisted no Council of Faith would allow it, as things stood now - or consummate it. Tyrion knew that her guilt and compassion and sense of duty could induce her to live with him as his wife, at least for the purpose of giving him a son, but he wouldn't consider suggesting it. As much as he wanted her - and in his private thoughts, he could no longer deny that he did, even more than before - he would not have a wife who is unable to look upon him without a shudder of revulsion.

He could beget a bastard while still being married, and legitimize him later, he supposed. It was a long and often humiliating process, but it could be done. Still, even this was proving to be difficult. His second encounter with Ella was as frustratingly unsuccessful as the first. He hoped he would be able to bed other women once he left Winterfell and stopped seeing Sansa every day, but he didn't even foresee a possibility to leave for a long while hence.

Soon, Tyrion became so plagued by a constant flow of questions, complaints, demands and requests from builders, smiths, merchants, the steward, the castellan and a variety of other people, that he felt he could take it no longer. He began escaping on blissfully lonely rides in the surroundings of Winterfell. The country was beautiful and he enjoyed the colors, smells and sounds of spring. Wherever he turned, the last remains of snow were turning into puddles, leaves and buds were unfurling, and birds burst into song.

There was a clear quick stream he liked to go to - it only recently broke through the ice that encased it throughout the winter, and bubbled merrily along its curving track, with sharp turns and occasionally a gushing little waterfall.

One such time, he heard an unexpected canter of a horse near him, and turned around to see a stranger riding right at him. _A wildling, _was his first alarming thought. Naturally, he wore no armor, and only had his dagger with him - not a very sharp one, either. But then he realized that the stranger was actually a maid - it was difficult to notice this at first, because she wore boiled leather and faded woolen breeches, and her short brown hair looked as if she had cut it with a dagger, and she was so dirty and unkempt - but yes, it was a girl no older than fifteen, and - and - no, it couldn't be, but - yes, it was her, it had to be her - he could not be so much mistaken, even though she was a child when he last saw her. She had the grey Stark eyes, and her face was a reflection of the late Lord Eddard's, as much as it could be in a girl.

"Lady Arya!" he cried. She stopped her horse next to his, and scowled.

"Imp," she said with obvious distaste. She knew him as well, then. _Of course she would. How many dwarfs with half a nose prance about in Lannister crimson and gold?_ "What are you doing here?"

"You might have heard that your sister and I are now married," he replied coolly. Her scowl became more prominent.

"Yes. I also heard just how it came to be. Poor Sansa. Perhaps I should rid her of you," in one quick, liquid move she unsheathed her sword.

_Well, that would be one way to solve our little problem once and for all. _"Surely you would not harm an unarmed man," he said.

"I killed many unarmed men," said Arya Stark. It was no empty boast, he could tell. _A wildling would have been less dangerous after all. _

"You wouldn't want to kill your own good-brother, right outside the walls of your home... which I am trying to rebuilt, incidentally," he finished in a waspish tone.

"_You_ are trying to rebuild Winterfell?" Arya's eyes narrowed in disbelief. "All the work that is said to be going on here..."

"If you ride a little way forward, you shall see," Tyrion made a gesture that was meant to convey the most generous welcome. Sullenly, Arya rode with him towards the castle.

From a respectful distance, Tyrion witnessed the meeting between the two sisters, and when he saw how Sansa's face lit up with astonished joy, and how she and Arya laughed and cried and hung about each other, he felt his heart expand. He had never thought the two girls were so alike; Sansa was all Tully, he believed, with her blue eyes and auburn hair, and Arya all Stark. But now he saw there was also a distinct quality about them both that made it impossible to miss the bond of blood that connected them for as long as they lived.

"But where have you been?" Sansa asked her sister tearfully, after the first embraces and exclamations of happiness were done with.

"Far from here," Arya said evasively. "I found my way back after I learned the war is about to end, and that the Targaryen queen is winning."

"And once you were back in Westeros, did you ride here all on your own?" Sansa asked in wonder.

An expression of reluctance appeared on Arya's face. "No," she admitted, "a... a knight saw me through most of the ride home."

"A knight?" Sansa appeared curious. "What was his name?"

"Ser Gendry," Arya said, and for some reason, looked none too happy.

"Ser Gendry of which house?"

"What does it matter?" snapped Arya. "He rode with me... until he turned back. His way did not lead to Winterfell, he said."


	6. Chapter 6

When the sun began to lower over the treetops, Sansa felt a twinge of anxiety.

"He should have been back by now," she said.

Arya made a derisive noise. "The Imp can take care of himself." The gallop of a horse could be heard. "There, I told you."

But although it was undoubtedly Tyrion's chestnut mare, she had no rider on her back. "On a second thought, maybe he _did_ suffer some mishap," Arya said with relish. Sansa's face was very grave.

"Erryk," she told the castellan, "send men to search the area for my lord husband at once. Hurry, you must find him before dark."

"Yes, m'lady," the man nodded and hurried away. Once he did, Arya turned on her sister, her expression quizzical.

"How can you bear it?" she asked.

"Bear what?" Sansa didn't understand.

"Being married to the Imp, of course," snapped Arya. "In your place I would probably strangle him in his sleep."

"It isn't like you think," said Sansa, "Tyrion was always good to me, and..."

"How can you say that?" demanded Arya. "He is a Lannister! I don't need to remind you what they did to Father and Mother and Robb, do I?"

"That was Tywin Lannister's work, not Tyrion's."

"He is Tywin's son, do you really believe he had nothing to do with it? And besides, I can hardly stand looking at him. How can you let him _touch_ you?"

Sansa blushed crimson. "He... he never..." she struggled for words. "He never did," she finally said, "his father made us marry, but Tyrion... he knew how I would feel about - about - it, and he didn't..."

Arya's face brightened. "Then you aren't really married to him!" she exclaimed. "You can be free!"

Sansa shook her head solemnly. "I took a holy vow," she said.

"In a stupid sept, in front of their stupid gods. _Our_ gods wouldn't care about something like this."

Sansa looked shocked. "Do not talk so. It is sacrilege."

"I forgot. You always liked the Seven."

"We were brought up in the Faith, or have you forgotten?"

"_You_ were. I wasn't, really... although Mother did try."

That is true, thought Sansa. Arya never got along with Septa Mordane, and later, when she ran away and spent all that time gods know where, she could hardly be expected to grow up very pious. For all her questions, she still couldn't get a lot of coherent information out of her sister, although the name of the mysterious Ser Gendry did come up more than once. Sansa would dearly love to know who the man was.

The men she sent weren't tardy in returning. The last glimmer of a red sunset could still be seen on the horizon, and the torches were just being lit when the small procession was back. Two men were carrying a stretcher between them, and in the stretcher was Tyrion, one of his legs propped up and hurriedly bandaged.

"My lord!" Sansa hurried forward, a troubled look upon her face. "What happened? Erryk, please call Maester Kaeth."

"Right away, m'lady."

"No need to worry, my lady," said Tyrion, "it was a wildling arrow, but it only grazed my thigh."

"A _wildling_ arrow?" Arya came forward as well, an expression of lively interest upon her face. "You met wildlings here, near Winterfell?"

"If I am any judge, yes. They spoke the Old Tongue, otherwise I wouldn't have guessed they aren't simply a rag-tag band of outlaws. They didn't seem very keen to get me, though, or I wouldn't be here. They just loosened that one arrow and galloped away, and my poor horse reared in fright and threw me off, and I sprained my ankle as I fell. _That_ hurts far more than the arrow wound, but I daresay neither injury is very serious."

"Still, Maester Kaeth will see to you at once, my lord," said Sansa, "even superficial wounds can fester if not treated immediately."

Sansa followed the Maester and Tyrion into Tyrion's chambers. There, Maester Kaeth, a tall and impressive man with salt-and-pepper hair, washed the wound on Tyrion's thigh and tightly bandaged the injured ankle. "There, my lord. You should be able to get up on the morrow, but of course, you should step gingerly when you put weight on that leg. I confess, your account bothers me more than your wound. Wildlings have not been seen in the area since the end of the war. If those were scouts planning a raid... I will write to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch about this, if you please, my lord."

"I will do it myself," said Tyrion, "I am sure old Jorah Mormont will be thrilled to hear from me."

Despite herself, Sansa felt curious at the mention of this man's name. The story of Jorah Mormont taking the black was a mysterious one. He was known to have been offered a position on the royal council by the new queen, as well as a restoration of his lands and title as lord of Bear Island, but instead he chose to join the Night's Watch, the Lord Commander of which he was soon made.

"As you wish, my lord," the Maester inclined his head. "In that case, I will go and order something light and nourishing to be brought up to you, perhaps a bowl of broth and some bread. My lady," he bowed to Sansa as he walked out.

"You must not ride out on your own again, my lord," said Sansa when she was left alone with Tyrion, "it is dangerous. You could have been killed."

"Well," he replied with a crooked smile, "at least that would have solved our... problem once and for all. You would have been free."

All of a sudden, Sansa's eyes were awash with tears. "You know I would never wish that," she said, "not that way."

He studied her face for a moment, then nodded. "I know," he said, and looked a little embarrassed, "it was only a jape."

"At any rate, I will tell Erryk to give a warning to all the men," said Sansa, "no one should wander about alone if there are wildlings prowling the area."

"I must say, I did get farther away today than I usually do," said Tyrion, "and... I found something there," he paused, "I brought you a gift."

"A gift?" Sansa was surprised. "For me?"

He took something out of his pocket and held it out on his open palm for her. It was a large piece of amber, golden and very clear and shaped into an almost perfect oval by the incessant stream of water. A few bubbles of air could be seen distinctly within it, as well as a small, perfectly preserved moth from eons ago. When Sansa touched it with her fingertips, she discovered it was smooth as silk and almost warm to the touch.

"It's beautiful," she murmured, "where did you find it?"

"Beyond the river. It changed its course come spring, and one area which used to be part of the stream is now dry. There were many such pieces there... although this one was undoubtedly the finest. I am sure we can find a lot more amber if we send people to dig."

"Certainly, but first it must be ensured the area is safe. And you must eat and rest. I will go now and see that your meal is sent up to you without delay, my lord," and having said that, she left him.

In her own chambers, she sat for a long time, running her fingers over the lovely amber. It had beauty such as she seldom encountered, and was polished in so masterly a way it was hard to believe nature did it without the intervention of human hand. _Perhaps the Children of the Forest worked at it, _she thought. It was like honey made liquid, reminiscent of warm summers and rich harvests._ A gift_. Tyrion had never given her gifts before, so why now, when each should see the other as an obstacle on the way to freedom?

Sansa didn't quite understand what prompted her to get up from her place and take the candle in her hand. _I can see if he sleeps, _she thought, _and if he doesn't, I will ask... _what she would ask she could not quite define herself, but nevertheless she crossed the hall, put her hand on the handle of Tyrion's door, and pressed. The door was unlocked, and opened with a slight creak, and Sansa stood silently for a moment, listening. His breathing was even. _He sleeps. _But then he murmured something else, and she could only make out the word _always_. _It might be the onset of a fever after all, _she thought and stepped forward. Light as a breeze, she placed a hand on his brow. The skin didn't seem to be exceptionally warm to the touch.

She was startled when Tyrion got hold of her hand, not insistently but in a way that somehow made her very aware of the heat and pressure of his fingers. He said her name, and it sounded like a prayer. He tugged on her wrist, ever so slightly. _Perhaps I am dreaming, _thought Sansa as she found herself sitting down on his bed.

Tyrion sat up as well, facing her. He let go of her wrist and cupped her cheek. Then he was close; quite close - much too close. _He is kissing me, _Sansa realized in wild surprise. Then an even more startling realization overcame her - she was kissing him back.

His lips touched hers gently, tender and questioning, and he made no move to pull her closer to him, giving her the option to back away, but somehow she didn't. His tongue found the way into her mouth, and in the darkness she could hear the strong, unsteady rhythm of his heart.

He was the one to break off. He held her face in both hands and looked at her with a mixture of such uncertainty, tenderness and desire that Sansa flushed. She wanted to speak, but it appeared that she had forgotten how.

"You had better go," whispered Tyrion, "I - this is..."

"Inappropriate?" supplied Sansa, and a hoarse, quiet laugh was all his reply. "No, it's not the right word, is it? We _are_ husband and wife, after all, but..."

She was beginning to lose the thread of her thought. There was something different in Tyrion's eyes now, something that spoke of a far more powerful, urgent need than anything he had ever confessed, and it frightened and excited her at the same time, and she didn't know what to do.

Bewildered, uncertain, she got up and quickly found her way to the door, but a part of her wished she would remain, and this only added to her confusion.


	7. Chapter 7

Tyrion scowled as he read the letter from Castle Black.

"Is anything amiss, my lord?" asked Sansa.

"Amiss?.. _Most concerned about his lordship's unfortunate encounter... better not leave the castle walls without an escort..." _Yes, if you are a bloody dwarf. "_... we assure you that patrol groups are being sent beyond the Wall at regular intervals... his lordship is always welcome to come and see with his own eyes..." _he crushed the letter in his fist and chucked it onto a brazier, where it curled, blackened and fell apart in the flames. "Well, I didn't expect anything different. I knew the arrogant old fool would not take me seriously."

"You are acquainted with Lord Mormont, are you not?"

"Oh, yes." Their acquaintance included Jorah Mormont single-handedly abducting Tyrion from a brothel, but his lady wife need not hear that. "I know him, and he _thinks_ he knows me, but there he is mistaken. I will not sit here and wait until the Bear opens his eyes and realizes he needs to send patrols on _both_ sides of the Wall. I will accept his gracious invitation and pay him a little visit."

"You will go to the Wall, my lord?" she sounded surprised.

"That is my intention."

"How long will you be gone?" Sansa asked.

Tyrion studied her for a moment, trying to determine whether there is more to the question than common politeness. "Hopefully not too long," he said, "but I know I can trust you to supervise the builders while I am gone, my lady. I will leave some instructions for Erryk, too."

Of late, he spent most of his time in Sansa's company, and sometimes they even talked of things unrelated to castle reconstructions, the weather, or the meal in front of them, but there was no recurrence of encounters such as happened between them that one time. Still, Tyrion felt those few moments changed something between them. He still didn't know why she came to his room that night, but he was certain kissing him was not in her plans. _She knows I want her, _he thought, _but does she know how much? _Thoughts of her filled much of his waking hours, and when she was near him, he had to struggle to keep his eyes off her at least part of the time. Awkward as everything between them was, he knew he would sorely miss Sansa while he is gone. Perhaps some part of her would regret his absence as well. _Do you really believe that, Imp?_

On the morning of his departure, he broke his fast with his wife and good-sister. Lady Arya was so courteous as to remind him he had better set off as soon as he can, so that he might take proper advantage of the light hours. _This one loathes the sight of me, and who can blame her? I've often loathed the sight of myself as well. _He nodded and concentrated on his breakfast. There was fresh bread and clotted cream and the first harvest of this spring's honey.

Sansa came to see him and his escort off at the gate, and made to raise one of her hands as if she meant to extend it to him, then thought again and lowered it. Tyrion couldn't help but wish that she hadn't. He wanted to say something to her, but nothing except the commonest courtesies was possible in front of everyone, so he merely bowed to his wife and expressed his wish to find her in good health upon his return. She thanked him in equal politeness.

"I wish you a safe journey, my lord," she said, and then it was time to go. He turned and looked back several times. Sansa remained standing at the gate for a long while, but he could not tell whether she looked directly at him or merely stared after the column.

His journey north was uneventful; before long, it seemed, the Wall loomed ahead. It was immense, but not like he remembered it. Whereas the Wall used to be a massive construction of solid unmelting ice, held together by powerful spells since the dawn of time, in collapsed in part during the Great Battle for the Dawn, and now there were parts of it which were made in stone, not quite so high. Still, the Wall was without a doubt impressive, and presumably quite capable of defending Westeros - as long as nothing more terrible than wildlings lurked behind it.

The reaction of Lord Commander Mormont at the sight of him was just as Tyrion had expected - a mixture of incredulity and annoyance.

"You," said Jorah Mormont, towering over him with a grimace of displeasure.

"Yes," Tyrion nodded calmly, "though I wouldn't look so surprised if I were you. You were the one who wrote and said I am always welcome to visit, so here I am."

The scowl on Mormont's face deepened. "You needn't have come. As a way of help you are worse than useless, and unless you mean to be a hindrance..."

"A group of wildlings, armed and mounted, was seen a couple of hours' ride away from Winterfell," Tyrion interrupted him. "One of them shot me in the leg. But of course, you know this already. What have you done regarding this incident since you received my letter?"

"As far as I recall, reporting to you is not part of my duty."

"Perhaps not," Tyrion felt his temper rising. "But I am the lord of Casterly Rock, advisor to Her Grace the Queen Daenerys, first of her name, and through my lady wife, Lord Protector of Winterfell as well. If I were you, Mormont, I wouldn't be in such a hurry to get on my wrong side."

"To the best of my knowledge, no wildlings have crossed the Wall," Jorah said grudgingly.

"Well, then," Tyrion was beginning to lose his patience, "the best of your knowledge isn't bloody good enough, is it? Because I can recognize wildlings when I see them."

Jorah Mormont was courteous enough, at least, to offer him refreshment - bread and cheese and olives, and a flagon of apple cider to go with it all. The Lord Commander drank but little, though, and sat with his arms crossed while Tyrion nibbled on a bit of cheese.

"You should not have come," repeated the Bear, "Castle Black is still under reconstruction. We do not have suitable accommodations for a man of your rank, my lord."

"I will only take up a little space," said Tyrion, "and I don't expect lavish quarters. At the moment, Winterfell is sparse enough, but I do not complain."

"Yes," Jorah Mormont contemplated him, "you now have Winterfell as well as Casterly Rock, do you not? Quite a lot of lands and castles and titles for a small man like you, Lannister."

"My lady wife holds Winterfell," Tyrion corrected him, "I only put my humble efforts into helping her rule - and I assure you the Lady Sansa is quite up to the task."

A grim smile appeared on Mormont's face. "Your wife," he said, "but you never touched her, it is well known."

_Even here on the bloody Wall, isn't that so, you old bastard? _"As I said," Tyrion's voice was icy, "the best of your knowledge might be woefully insufficient, my lord."

Mormont shrugged. "Be that as it may. You are here; what is it that you want me to do now?"

"Send a patrol of your best men beyond the Wall and thoroughly search for any signs of wildling activity in all its surroundings. _Thoroughly,_ Mormont."

"Do not take that tone with me," bristled Jorah, "I am the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and I decide what is to be done."

"Why ask for my opinion, then?"

Mormont let out a loud sigh. "I have almost forgotten just how insufferable you can be, Imp. I don't have rangers to spare for such a mission. My most trustworthy men are patrolling along the Wall even now, I cannot send them deeper into wildling territory."

"I will go beyond the Wall myself, then, if you send a few men with me," Tyrion said irritably, and regretted those words the next moment. _Remember the Blackwater, dwarf? You already lost half a nose, do you fancy missing an eye or an ear, or perhaps all of your ugly head? _

"Will you?" Mormont sounded surprised. There was no backing out. "Will you really go beyond the Wall, Imp?"

"Yes," Tyrion said firmly, "if you will."

Paste your document here...


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: This chapter is for Mrs. Imp, who asked how Bran might be a part of the story. _

Sansa was surprised when she heard her sister's footsteps in the godswood behind her. Despite her proclaimed devotion to the old gods, Arya didn't come to pray very often.

The sisters exchanged a silent glance as Arya knelt beside Sansa. Overhead, the skies were a clear spring blue, high and bright, and the song of a skylark sounded in the distance. But here, in the circle of the ancient trees, all was solemn almost as if winter still reigned.

For some minutes, neither Sansa nor Arya uttered a word, as each turned in her thoughts to the gods of her fathers. But then, something happened that made them exchange a bewildered look.

"Did you hear that?" asked Arya in a sharp, quiet voice.

"Yes. But... it doesn't make any sense, but it just seemed to me as though - as though someone was calling my name."

"I thought someone was calling _my_ name, too," nodded Arya. "And... it was as if the sound was coming from the _trees._"

And there it was, unmistakably, again - a faint voice, calling both their names.

_Sansa. Arya. _It was barely audible and it sent a queer chill through Sansa's chest. It was also inexplicably familiar.

_You are back._

The two girls didn't think of it; it was impossible to knowingly consider such a possibility, because it made no sense, it couldn't be, but their voices called his name at the same time.

"Bran!"

_Here. Right here. _

"Bran!" Sansa called, feeling her heart is about to explode. "Are you here? Are you... are you... _dead_?"

_Alive. Always. Here. _

But the disembodied voice was merely an echo of their long-lost brother, and already it was fading, growing even fainter.

_You must... find... it._

_"_Find what?" Arya cried urgently. "Find _what_, Bran? Where?"

_Down. Below. _

And then the voice was really and truly gone, and no matter how much they called and pleaded, they could not bring it to speak again. Then they looked at each other, thinking the same thing. _Below. _But what was there down below? Just one thing, and they both knew it.

The crypts of Winterfell.

The red flames of the torch in Arya's hand flickered unsteadily, throwing huge leaping black shadows on the walls and floor, and Sansa tried to tell herself that nothing but the smoke is making her eyes sting. Both Stark daughters were standing in front of the carved stone likeness of Lord Eddard.

"Robb should have been here too," Arya said in a whisper, and Sansa nodded, trying to stem the flow of her tears. Robb's mutilated body had never been found after the Freys threw it into the river.

"He was the last Stark of Winterfell, have you ever thought of that?" said Sansa. "After we are gone, the name will be extinct. Even if we both have children, they will never be Starks."

"Well," Arya said slowly, "it depends. Perhaps if one of us marries someone who won't mind adopting the name of Stark... someone who has no proper name of his own. A bastard, perhaps."

"A bastard?" Sansa looked aghast. _How could either of us stoop so low as to marry someone bastard-born? _Arya had the most ridiculous notions sometimes.

"Oh, I forgot," Arya said tartly, "I recall now how you feel about bastards. You never treated Jon - "

"Jon was my brother as much as yours," Sansa interrupted in a cool voice.

"You always remembered he was only a half-brother, and baseborn. To me it made no difference. Jon ought to have been brought to Winterfell too, to rest beside Father."

"Even if you forget the fact Jon was a Snow, not a Stark... he was a man of the Night's Watch," Sansa reminded her. "Once he went north to take his place on the Wall, he renounced all his old connections."

"Jon would never have forgotten _me_, even if he lived to be a hundred years old and we never saw each other again!" Arya exclaimed stubbornly. "His home was here - even though Mother hated that."

Sansa stifled a sigh. She understood now that Lady Catelyn held no personal grudge against Jon Snow, but the bastard boy served as a living reminder of her husband's infidelity. No wonder she wasn't very kindly disposed towards Jon. Arguing with Arya further, however, would be futile.

Instead, the two girls walked on, their steps echoing eerily in the empty space. Then Arya stopped abruptly and held her torch close to one of the walls.

"Look!" she said excitedly. "What is this?"

Sansa looked intently. This was extremely strange, for she has been in the crypts before and she was certain she never saw it. Yet there it was - an outline in the stone, and something that looked almost like a handle -

"A door!" Arya breathed out in wonder. "I'll bet this is what Bran's voice told us to find! It was never here, Sansa, it only appeared now - it's... it's magic," she finished in awe. Trembling with excitement, she made to get hold of the handle, but Sansa laid a restraining hand on her arm.

"Wait," she said, "you don't know what this is... not truly. We don't even know what that - that voice in the godswood was. I know it sounded like Bran," she hurried on, "but it had no substance. Bran was killed, as far as we know, so was it his ghost? Or something else? I don't understand much of this, but it could be evil sorcery, Arya. I - I'm not sure you should open it."

But Arya was reckless and headstrong, and pushed the door, paying little attention to her sister's warnings. To be truthful, Sansa wasn't convinced they would be able to make it move at all, so heavy it looked, but either Arya was stronger than she thought or the door lighter than it seemed, because it swung forward silently and, it appeared, without effort, opening the way into a black chasm.

Arya walked forward and took the torch with her. In its light, it could be seen that roughly carved steps led below, but only a few could be made out in the faint light. Further down, as deep as they could see, all was black.

"A secret passage," Sansa said in a hushed voice, "where do you think it might lead?" images, some fascinating and some dangerous, crowded in her mind - treasure vaults and black cells of solitary confinement, gold coins covering the bones of long-dead men, lairs of ancient monsters, the unleashed ghosts of Winterfell...

"I have no idea," Arya said briskly, "but I'm going to find out," and she moved resolutely towards the black opening. Sansa gaped at her.

"No, but... wait, Arya, what are you doing?"

"Going inside," her sister explained the obvious, "are you coming with me, or are you staying here?"

"I - no, I can't do that, and neither should you! Let's go and call for more men and - "

"I forgot what a mouse you were," said Arya with a hint of contempt. "This isn't an ordinary door. What if it won't show itself to anyone but you and me? What if it isn't here when we come back again? I'm going through it now. Are you coming?"

"No," Sansa said firmly, "not like this, at any rate."

"Fine," Arya said, shrugging, "I will go alone."

"And leave me in the dark?" protested Sansa.

"Go up and wait for me just outside the entrance to the crypts. If I'm not back within an hour, go... go and call someone, Sansa."

There was no use to argue. Sansa nodded and, with a heavy heart, began her solitary ascent. Outside the crypts, she paced back and forth, wringing her hands. Fortunately, her fear was short-lived. Arya came up soon, dirty and disgruntled.

"The passage goes too far," she announced, "I thought that perhaps it was just a cell or an old grave or a hidden vault, but it just goes on and on... where, I can't say. It would take some preparation to go through it."

"Of course," Sansa was palpably relieved, "and I hope you won't - "

"I wonder where the passage leads, though," Arya went on. "You know what I think, Sansa? It might be one of those tunnels that go on and on... all the way from Winterfell to the Wall - and beyond it."

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	9. Chapter 9

"It still isn't too late to turn back," said Jorah Mormont, but Tyrion only smiled.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said.

"You'll regret this, Imp," the Lord Commander promised darkly, fastening his black cloak tighter about his throat.

Tyrion paid him no heed, and looked around him instead. It might be spring already, but atop the Wall it was always bloody cold. It would be warmer down below... but not much, once they strike farther north than he ever thought he would travel.

The Westerosi thought of all the lands north of the Wall as the end of the world, at least any part of the world a civilized man would care about. To them, it was all the same - a harsh, little known country, sparsely populated by savage wildlings. Tyrion, however, knew that vast kingdoms stretched north of the Wall, wild but fascinating - lands of fierce tribes and giants and those who claimed to descend from the First Men themselves. The people of the Seven Kingdoms considered wildlings to be little more than animals, but Tyrion knew it wasn't true either. He had seen many lands and knew people were much the same everywhere, whether they wore wool or silk or fur and leather or nothing at all.

As he had expected, Jorah Mormont was not the most pleasant companion. The big man rode beside him in sullen silence, once in a while throwing Tyrion a dirty look. Tyrion did his best to ignore it, and instead looked about him, as though their ride was merely for pleasure and they expected to return to Castle Black for their midday meal. He even hummed _"The Dornishman's Wife"_ under his breath.

"You think you outsmarted me, Lannister," Jorah said through gritted teeth sometime around midmorning, "and perhaps you have, but you'll be sorry when all is said and done. You should have stayed safely in Winterfell and let me deal with the wildlings as I deem proper."

"In other words, do nothing," said Tyrion, eyeing him boldly. "Tell me true. Why did you take the black, Mormont?"

"That is _Lord _Mormont for you," bristled the Bear, "the Lord _Commander_ of the Night's Watch."

Tyrion shrugged. "That is a fancy title, but it still amounts to cold salt mutton and freezing your backside off every time you go outside at night, winter or summer. And then there are the vows... _I shall hold no land, take no wife, father no children._ You returned home after many years of exile, you had your lordly seat restored to you again... though I'll grant you this, Bear Island can be even less appealing than the Wall at times. Still, you weren't too old to take a wife and have sons of your blood to follow you... why, then?"

"I had my reasons, none of which is of your concern," Mormont replied brusquely.

"I am sure," Tyrion let out a little laugh. "Men always have their reasons, don't they? I once wondered why the valiant Loras Tyrell, the dream lover of every maid in the Seven Kingdoms, so easily gave up the prospect of marriage and his own sons to join the Kingsguard. That was before I learned he preferred men... just like his good-brother, Lord Renly, in whose guard Ser Loras once served and who had been... shall we say, his special friend."

"What are you hinting at, Imp?" snapped Mormont.

"Oh, I'm not saying you are are averse to women's charms," grinned Tyrion, "I know you too well to think that. No doubt you had your own motives for going off to join the Night's Watch. Perhaps you thought our gracious queen would have you for a consort, if you threaten to leave her side and go take the black."

The voice that came out of Mormont's throat was very much like a bear's growl. "That isn't any of your bloody business, Lannister. You keep what's left of your nose out of my affairs."

Aware of the potential risks that came with goading Jorah Mormont, Tyrion fell silent. Without meaning to, his thoughts wandered off in the direction of Winterfell, where Sansa stayed behind. He wondered how _she _would react if he told her he is going to join the Night's Watch. She would probably say, _that is very brave and noble of you, my lord - _and a few moon turns after that, she would be wed to some brave young northman who would become master of the castle he had tried so hard to rebuild. Not that he was very likely to become a sworn brother of the Night's Watch; he didn't fancy taking vows he couldn't keep, and all this part about fathering no children would be difficult for him under any circumstances.

By evening, they rode out as far as any of the recent ranging groups had gone. They didn't meet anyone on their way, but that was to be expected - the small groups sent out on patrols by Jorah Mormont didn't go far; they rode east and west along the Wall. They didn't come across any wildlings either - the one wildling village they ran into was abandoned.

"See?" scoffed Mormont. "There is no one here. No people have lived in those shacks for many a week, that's plain to see."

"Are you a fool or only pretending to be one?" Tyrion asked sharply. "No, wait, I think I know the answer. Or perhaps you did not know that last time the wildlings abandoned their villages and camps, they went off to rally around the King-Beyond-the-Wall."

"Don't you presume to teach me lessons," snarled Jorah.

"No," said Tyrion, "no, you really ought to learn them yourself, _Lord Commander_."

They stopped for the night at a small clearing, surrounded by thick wild overgrowth, and toasted bits of bread and cheese over a cooking fire. They had some blood sausages as well, and red wine to wash it all down. No one lingered after supper; at first light, they were to get up and continue farther north, along a track that was known to one of the men Jorah Mormont took with him. Tyrion, who wasn't feeling very sleepy, volunteered to take the first watch, an offer that was eagerly accepted by the tired men. Soon, the sounds of snoring filled the air. It annoyed him at first, but soon enough he stopped hearing it, and then it seemed to him as though everything was perfectly still and silent.

Or was it? A stream bubbled not far away; a night bird called, an owl hooted, a small animal rustled through the grass, the wind whispered in the treetops. And there was something else... or did it only seem to him? A sharp crack, then silence, as if someone who was approaching silently stepped on a twig and was now biding his time, waiting, concealed.

It could be nothing. If he shook someone awake now, it could mean ridicule and annoyance over a false alarm. On the other hand, it might also make the difference between life and death.

Resolutely, his hand never leaving the hilt of his dagger, he went inside the tent and touched Mormont's shoulder. The Bear grunted in his sleep. It took some very determined effort on his part until the Lord Commander opened his eyes. When he saw Tyrion's face, he scowled.

"What do you want, Imp?"

"Get up, Mormont, I think there's someone just outside the camp."

Almost unconsciously, Mormont's hand went to his sword. "Did you hear something?" he asked.

"No, I only woke you up so I could enjoy a bit more of your company," said Tyrion waspishly. Mormont didn't bother to reply. Careful so as not to wake anyone else, they got out of the tent.

"Where?" the Lord Commander asked curtly. Tyrion showed him the direction from which the suspicious sound came. Sword unsheathed, Mormont searched the area, and Tyrion privately thought that if someone is on the lookout for them and couldn't locate them by the campfire, he was bound to be attracted now by the noise Mormont was making now, tearing his way through thorny bushes. Someone in the tent heard them too. A murmured question could be heard, and then someone's sleepy voice: "go back to sleep, Kelp. It's only the Bear gone out to take a piss."

"There is nothing," concluded Jorah, "it must have been some prowling wolf attracted by the smell of food, or simply an old branch that fell down, or..."

But his words died on his lips, because out of the black shadows men slipped out silently as ghosts, encircling them, cutting off all venues of escape. One, two, five, too many to count in the darkness that was only dispelled by the faint half-moon. Tyrion could not see their faces, but there was no mistaking the glint of their steel. The point of a sword or dagger, he couldn't tell and it didn't bloody matter which, was pressed to the back of his neck. Another man was doing the same service to Jorah Mormont.

"One word, you dead," whispered a voice in his ear, pronouncing with difficulty the words of the Common Tongue.

Tyrion wished he could come up with a smart plan, or at least some way to convince their ambushers to treat them gently. But somehow, his mind was blank and the only thought he could grasp was _oh, bugger_.


	10. Chapter 10

Sansa's heart was troubled. Two dozen good, trusted men left Winterfell through the mysterious passage that was found in the crypts, and Arya went with them, no matter how much Sansa tried to dissuade her.

"I won't talk about the propriety of this," she told her sister, "going alone with all those men... but think about the danger! If anything should happen to you..."

"You are just like Mother," Arya said, "I can hear her voice speaking through you."

"I wish I could be more like Father. Perhaps then I would be able to stop you."

"You are welcome to try," Arya said wryly, but of course Sansa didn't accept the challenge. When her sister's mind was settled on something, it was futile to try and make her waver. "I must go," she added softly, "I know it's hard to explain, but... I need to know what lies on the other side of this passage."

In addition to that, there was the spring feast to be hosted. All the noble northmen would come, Umber and Manderly and

Karstark and men from other, lesser houses, and all would expect to find a hospitable hearth and a gracious hostess in Winterfell. While giving parties and making people feel welcome was just what Sansa was raised to do, at the moment she didn't feel quite up to the task.

The sound of the Maester's footsteps was a welcome distraction, but the grim expression of his face made Sansa's heart miss a beat. Maester Kaeth had an unfurled roll of parchment in his hand, and on his shoulder was perched a black, plump, glossy-feathered raven.

"Lady Sansa," he began without preamble, "I'm afraid I bring ill news."

_Arya. Gods be good, please don't let it be Arya. I should never have let her go, I should have tried harder to stop her. _"Is it my sister, Maester?" Sansa asked in a faltering voice. Better know the truth at once, she thought.

"No, my lady, not your sister. There have been no news yet of the men of Winterfell, and I think it's too early to expect any. No, it is about your lord husband."

_Tyrion_. The momentary relief Sansa felt evaporated at once. "Tell me."

"There was a raven from Castle Black, from the Lord Commander's steward. He writes that Lord Tyrion went along with a group of rangers, led by the Lord Commander himself, beyond the Wall. And there, the lords Lannister and Mormont were ambushed and kidnapped by a band of wildlings."

Sansa paled. It didn't make any sense. "But... but why - why would Tyrion have gone with the men of the Night's Watch?"

The Maester shook his head sadly. "To this, I fear I have no answer. Be that as it may, this doesn't bide well. Lord Mormont, it appears, managed to shout and warn the others, but it didn't help to recover him or your lord husband. There were also signs of struggle... signs of blood. I'm afraid you must prepare for the worst, my lady."

_The worst._ Sansa felt sick to her stomach. Why did Tyrion go with Mormont? She knew her husband was a brave man, but he couldn't have fancied himself a ranger. Many seasoned warriors of the Night's Watch, like her own uncle Benjen, disappeared beyond the Wall, and their traces were never found. No one could tell for certain whether they were devoured by wild beasts, or resurrected as white walkers... or whether they simply wandered in circles, looking for the way back, until their resources and supplies were at an end and they had nothing left to do but lie down and die.

Still, they might be alive yet. The chance, however faint, was there, and she must do whatever she can... but what can she do? _I am the Stark of Winterfell now_, she reminded herself. _I must forget my fear and remember my duty. _

_"_Write to whoever is in charge on the Wall now, Maester. Ask them to send parties to look for my husband and Lord Mormont. Not one party, several, to go in different directions. Write that if Lord Tyrion comes back alive, the gratitude of Winterfell will be with the Night's Watch... and the gratitude of Winterfell has always meant much on the Wall."

"I'm sure every possible action is already being taken to locate the Lord Commander's tracks," said the Maester, "but I will, of course, send your message along, my lady. Apart from that," he added gently, "there is really nothing any of us can do."

Sansa was left alone in her chambers, and once more tried to choose a dress for the feast, although she had seldom felt less festive. However, there was nothing to it. Her father told her once that there are different kinds of courage; there's the bravery of battle, when you know you might lose your life any moment. And the courage of talking to an enemy - _a dagger hidden in the dark - _knowing he is waiting for the first opportune moment to strike. And there's also the courage of smiling when all you want to do is cry. _I must try and do what would have made him proud. _Even if everyone close to her is in peril, she must be strong. _Mother have mercy, please let them come home safe. _

She settled for a dress of grey satin trimmed in white, embroidered with baby pearls. Grey and white, the Stark colors. Just like she wore at her wedding... how wretched she had been on that day, to think that she would become Tyrion's wife! And now she might never see him again, and... she covered her face with her hands. Once more, the memory of the night when she came to his bed flooded her mind, and she felt more confused than ever. _I shouldn't have come, _she told herself. _Or perhaps I should have stayed with him. _

She felt utterly alone. In the entire castle, there was no one to talk to, no one who could hear and understand the woes of her heart. _No one but the gods._ She lit candles to the Mother and Maiden and Warrior, but she felt it wasn't enough. She craved the closeness to the old gods of her ancestors, the ones whose faith flowed in her blood.

When she knelt in front of the heart tree, a sudden hopeful thought struck her. Perhaps he is still here. Perhaps she is not the only Stark in Winterfell after all. She cleared her throat and called in an uncertain, quiet voice:

"Bran?"

For a moment, all she heard was the rustle of leaves, but then the faint, disembodied, yet unmistakably familiar voice of her brother answered her:

_Sansa. _

"Bran, I am afraid. What am I to do?"

_Do not fear. _

Do not fear. That was easy to say if you are a spirit, beyond the woes and hopes of the realm of living. But how would _she_ attain that?

"Arya is gone, Bran. She went below, through the door. Down below, just like you said. And Tyrion..."

_They will be back. _

Those were the last words she heard from him that night. After that, there was only silence.

_They will be back. _Somehow, she could not help but believe him. _But will they be back alive, or dead? _


	11. Chapter 11

_My, isn't that just like good old times, _mused Tyrion. _Taken into captivity with Jorah Mormont. Perfect, bloody perfect. _

After they were ambushed at swordpoint, their wrists and ankles were bound and they were unceremoniously heaved onto the backs of strong, wiry-muscled wildling horses, just like two sacks of hay. Mormont tried to shout a warning to the others, which earned him a nasty punch in the eye, and they both had their mouths gagged as a result. Still, perhaps it was worthwhile, because their captors hurried to flee, and the rest of the group, at least, remained unharmed. With some luck, they will be back at Castle Black by now, to tell the tale and raise rescue groups. The fact that they are known to be kidnapped was comforting, but not very much so. The wildlings had too much of a head start, and knew the area far better than the rangers of the Night's Watch ever could.

Before the dawn broke, the party of wildlings stopped for a rest, and Tyrion and Jorah had the dirty rags removed from their mouths. Each of them was given a meal of hard flat oatcakes and smelly salt fish. It was awkward to eat with their wrists still bound together, and after the food was gone Tyrion felt hungrier than before he had eaten, but at least it was good to know the wildlings intend to keep them alive. _For the time being. _Why, though? If they were after loot, they could have simply killed the two unsuspecting blundering oafs they encountered outside the ranger camp, but he and Jorah suffered no excessive violence, and their valuables remained untouched. They were even given a place to rest in the corner of a tent made of skins and furs, although finding a comfortable position was difficult while they were still caught in their ropes.

When the dawn's light seeped through the front entrance, the wildlings stretched and yawned and got out, one by one, presumably to make breakfast and prepare to ride on. Tyrion and Jorah were left alone.

"Mormont," said Tyrion in a low voice. The Lord Commander turned his head slowly and looked at him. His eye was swollen and had turned a brilliant shade of purple.

"What?" he grunted.

"Do you happen to have any idea where we are?"

"What do you think?" snapped Jorah. "It wasn't exactly a good time for sightseeing, was it? Unless of course you're a shadowcat."

"I'd be a bit more courteous, if I were you," Tyrion advised him. "After all, it was your bloody fault we got caught in the first place."

"_My_ fault?" Mormont swelled with indignation. "What are you talking about, Imp?"

"Yes, your fault. If you had tried to keep the noise down while you searched around the camp, perhaps you wouldn't have attracted their attention."

"They would have seen us anyway," said Jorah, "they were obviously following us for some time."

"I gathered as much," said Tyrion, "but _why?_ And where are they taking us? They seem to have a purpose. Did you notice how much colder it has gotten while we rode? It seems we are ascending into mountains."

"They might be taking us into the Frostfangs," suggested Mormont. This held little consolation for the two captives, and they were rendered silent, immersed in gloomy thoughts.

One of the wildlings entered – a tall, black-haired young man with an insolent look that reminded Tyrion of Bronn, the sellsword who had once been at his service. The others, he took notice earlier, called this man by the name of Torgud, and treated him as a leader of sorts, although with wildlings the habit of obedience did not run deep, which led to quarrels and power struggles over every trifle.

The man brought them some oatcakes and salty fish from the night before. It wasn't a promising start to a day, but Tyrion suspected stale oatcakes would soon be the least of their concerns.

"Be quick," said the young man. Of the entire group, he was the only one who had some Common Tongue. "Ride soon."

"What do you mean to do with us?" demanded Jorah Mormont. The wildling grinned wickedly.

"Eat you," he said, "little man first. You next. Make good feast."

_How wonderfully witty. _Tyrion hoped, at least, that it _was_ no more than wit. "Where are you taking us?" he asked.

"Little man want to know?" their captor looked unimpressed. "Will know in time. Now eat," he made to turn away."

"Wait," Tyrion called after him, "I need to take a piss."

Torgud grinned. "Hop outside, dwarf. Will find someone to unlace your breeches."

"You have taken our blades," interjected Mormont, "surely you can unbind us now?"

Torgud chuckled, as if he heard a really good joke. "You don't need sword or spear to kill man, you great ox."

"We promise to be on our best behavior," Tyrion said charmingly, but the wildling man only retreated from the tent, still chuckling.

He was back soon, though, with a big jagged knife he used to take off the ropes that bound their feet. Their wrists remained tied, but Tyrion could get up, at least, and somehow he managed to awkwardly unlace his breeches and make water. Lacing them back up was more difficult and he couldn't do it properly, but at least the breeches didn't fall off.

Soon, they were on their way. He and Mormont rode double on one of the sturdy shaggy horses, with two of the wildlings flanking them back and front. Now, at daylight, he could take a proper look at their abductors. Besides Torgud, there were five men – or four men and a boy, for one of them was a broad-shouldered red-haired youth no older than fifteen – and one woman, a vicious-looking young spearwife. She had short chestnut hair that was as shaggy as the mane of her horse, and she could have been pretty if it weren't for someone's blade, which slashed her cheek open from ear to mouth. The flesh was crudely sewn up, and an ugly scar remained. Tyrion couldn't hold back a throaty laugh. _Such beauty ruined by one stroke of steel, _he told himself. _How well I can relate to that. _

"What's so funny?" hissed Mormont.

"Oh, just the thought of what a pair of fearsome warriors we make, mounted like this. The Big Man and his little companion."

Jorah snorted. "The most fearsome thing about you is your face, Imp."

"I know," sighed Tyrion, "a pity the wildlings don't share this view, or they would have surely thrown their weapons and ran off in terror."

The young spearwife's face wasn't exactly fair to look upon either, but she didn't allow this to bother her. She was tall and slim, but with ample curves, and walked with a certain rough grace. She appeared to enjoy her share of male attention, too; Torgud in particular seemed to have taken more than a slight fancy to her. Her name was Elma.

As Tyrion guessed, they were gradually ascending into the mountains and going, in general, eastward – although it was hard to tell, because the paths the wildlings used twisted and turned and at times seemed to disappear and reappear in no obvious order. Sometimes someone – Torgud more often than not – started a wild song that sounded like the cry of a bird above a stony valley. And sometimes their captors exchanged a few phrases. For having nothing else to do, Tyrion listened intently. He only knew a few words in the Old Tongue, and of that the different tribes have made many dialects, so he didn't have much hope of picking up anything important. There was, however, a word that was repeated more often than others, it seemed to him. _Strange,_ he thought. _I might be mistaken, but it sounds almost like_ king.


	12. Chapter 12

Sansa stared at her reflection in the silver looking glass, and thought her mother would have proud. She looked all of a highborn lady, gracious and lovely in her grey and white dress. Pearls adorned her ears and neck, and her hair was braided and twisted up. It shone, reflecting the candlelight, and there was a hint of red gold in its rich auburn shade.

She descended into the hall, where dozens upon dozens of Flints, Mormonts, Umbers, Karstarks, Manderlys and Cerwyns and their household men were already waiting. When she entered, every eye was upon her, and Sansa walked towards the seat that used to be her mother's. Even if she was the only Stark in Winterfell now, she couldn't bring herself to occupy her father's place.

She lingered on her feet and clasped her hands together in a gesture of welcome. The hubbub of talking that spread across the hall died, and everyone fell silent.

"My lords," she said, "I welcome you to Winterfell. It is a joy for me to see my father's loyal men again, and to be here, beneath the roof of this noble castle. The war was long and the winter cold and we all suffered grievous losses, but now spring is upon us once again, and with it the dawn of new hope. To celebrate this, tonight we shall feast, and welcome spring and new life into our midst."

Sansa fell silent and her heart thumped in her chest. She wondered whether she had said the right words, and whether this was enough - but the cheers that erupted all around the hall convinced her that all was as it should be. Many clapped their hands, other shouted "Stark! Stark! Winterfell!" and someone struck a lute in the corner. Sansa gave a sign to begin, and servants appeared, carrying out the first course, a stew of venison and wild mushrooms.

Some men came forward to pay her homage, kiss her hand, and rejoice over the reconstruction of Winterfell. To them, she usually responded by saying, "if my lord father had been alive, I know he would be overjoyed to see you here, ser."

One man waited to come to her until the others have dispersed. She didn't recognize him at first, but he wore the sigil of house Karstark, a white sun on a black field, and Sansa understood he must be Harrion, the young lord of Karhold.

"Lady Sansa," he said, bowing, "there is no greater joy than to see you home at last."

"I thank you, my lord," replied Sansa, extending her hand. Lord Karstark kissed her fingertips, and did not let go of her hand as quickly as she might have expected. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man, good-looking in his solemn way.

"You look troubled, my lady," he observed, watching her intently, "is something weighing upon you, if I may make bold to ask?"

"It is kind of you to ask, my lord," said Sansa, "there are several matters, one of which is that my lord husband was kidnapped by wildlings beyond the Wall."

"That is... most unfortunate," said Harrion Karstark, but he did not sound very convincing. If anything, he looked like a man who was beginning to nurture cautious hope. Sansa could not but notice the way he was looking at her, and at the vacant seat by her, as if he wished nothing better than to occupy it. The Karstarks were kin to the Starks, and at times not at all content to be mere bannermen. No doubt Harrion would love to become her consort and lord of Winterfell. Perhaps he would even consent to change his name to Stark, take the direwolf for his sigil, and leave Karhold for the lesser branches of house Karstark. "But why don't I see your sister, the lady Arya?" he asked. "I heard she was back in Winterfell as well, or was that just idle talk?"

"No, my lord," sighed Sansa, "you were not mistaken. My sister was here, but she... she has gone."

Lord Harrion frowned in puzzlement. "Gone where?"

Sansa had no intention of mentioning Bran's voice in the godswood and the door that appeared out of nowhere. She simply told that her sister and a group of men went through a passage that was discovered in the crypts of Winterfell. When she finished her tale, the frown on Harrion Karstark's face deepened.

"Gone through a passage that leads gods know where?" he said incredulously. "Pardon me, my lady, but if it were my sister, I would never have allowed something like this to happen."

There was something in his voice that made Sansa feel defensive, and yet she couldn't disagree with him, not truly. Arya was tougher than could seem at first glance, and yet she was still a maid of fifteen years, who had only just returned home after a long exile. _If anything should happen to her, I will never forgive myself. _

"No doubt, you speak with the voice of reason, my lord," said Sansa, "And yet I do not know what I could have done to stop her. Arya has always been wilful, and I do not pose much of an authority in her eyes. I confess, I am anxious in the extreme. Some time has already passed since the party set off, and we heard nothing of them."

"I should like to take a look at that passage," Harrion asked suddenly. Sansa looked about her. The feast was already in full swing; roast boar was being served, with many flagons of strong sweet mead and rich wines from the south. Perhaps if she slipped away for a little while, her absence would not be very conspicuous. Showing him the door would not take that long, at any rate.

"Come with me, my lord," she told him. Harrion was quick to oblige. He took a torch along with with, and Sansa led the way down to the crypts. Soon, they stood before the great stone door, but there Sansa was witness to the strangest thing - the door, which swung forward so easily for her and Arya, refused to budge for Harrion Karstark, even though he put his best efforts and all of his weight onto it. Finally, he was forced to admit defeat and stepped backward, mopping a sweaty brow.

"Perhaps it is something in the way this door is made," he suggested, "perhaps it got jammed or its mechanism is otherwise broken."

Sansa nodded, but deep inside she didn't believe it. Bran told of the door to her and Arya; he might not have wanted strangers to go down that path. Or perhaps the door would only open for Starks. Either way, Harrion Karstark didn't need to know any of it. She only politely expressed her agreement with his hypothesis.

"Do you have any idea where the passage might lead?" asked Harrion.

"If the legends of the secret passages in Winterfell are true, it is supposed to lead somewhere beyond the Wall. As you can imagine, my lord, this does nothing to alleviate my anxiety."

"I should think not," he nodded, and then added: "I shall collect a party of able men, and go forth to search for your sister, Lady Sansa."

Sansa looked up at him in surprise. "Do you mean that, Lord Harrion?"

"Of course. I will lead them myself. We will go north by way of Castle Black, explain our errand and refresh our supplies, then go beyond the Wall. I cannot promise anything, but I will do all in my power to bring Lady Arya back home. What you tell is troubling, but there is hope yet. As for your husband... forgive me, my lady, but he is likely dead. The wildlings aren't known to treat their prisoners gently."

Sansa knew that, but she pushed the thought away. "How soon do you think you might set out, my lord?"

"In a few days. I need to send word to every man who might prove useful... and to my sister as well," a scowl appeared on his face. "You know, perhaps, that Alys wed a man from beyond the Wall, Sigorn of the Thenn. _Lord_ Thenn, he styles himself now - and to be sure, he has some rule and order in that savage land of his, but his lordly seat is but a longhall, and it's so far up north that Winterfell is a warm southern castle compared to it."

"I know of Lady Alys's marriage," said Sansa, "my own brother, Jon Snow, had arranged the match."

"Not one of your late brother's better notions, if you will pardon me saying so, my lady," Harrion said bluntly, "but under the dire circumstances of that time, and the treachery of my great-uncle Arnolf, I am sure Lord Snow did his best. His aim was to protect Alys, and she was kept safe and comfortable enough throughout the war by that fearsome husband of hers. He removed her to Thenn, and there she bore him a strong and healthy son. Alys took it upon herself to set up a rookery there, so at least I can send her a raven from time to time. Strangely enough, she never expressed discontentment. She even appears fond of her wildling chief, which, taking everything into consideration, is probably for the best."

"I am happy to hear that your sister found joy in matrimony," Sansa interjected politely.

"Yes. Well. I shall send a message to her and ask her to try and influence her husband to conduct a search as well, or at least gather what knowledge he can. If Lady Arya is indeed beyond the Wall, he might know something sooner than we do. And then... then I will be gone myself, in the hopes of bringing your sister safely back."

"That is too good of you, my lord," Sansa said earnestly, and Harrion's eyes lingered on her face as he said:

"If it is in my power, there is nothing I wouldn't do for you, Lady Sansa."

All of a sudden, Sansa became uncomfortably aware that it is late at night, and she is all alone in a dark crypt with a young man whose eyes are devouring her.

"We had better go back up the feast, Lord Harrion," she said. He nodded, and they began to make their way up.

They must have been gone longer than Sansa expected, because when they returned it was already time for baked apples with raisins, honey and cloves, and nuts and cheese. Harrion Karstark remained by her side throughout the remainder of the feast, and it made her squirm when she realized others have noticed this as well.

She was certain that Harrion's sudden resolution to go forth in search of Arya stemmed from his ambition to win her favor - and the rule over the entire north that would go with it. This thought made her angrier than she had expected to be. _I am not widowed yet. _But later, when she was back in her chambers, a chilly dread gnawed at her heart. What if Tyrion _is_ dead? She didn't wish that, she realized. She wanted him to be back, so that she could sit opposite him in the library once more and say... but what _would_ she say to Tyrion? That she was sorry for judging him unjustly in the past? That she knew now he was a good, brave man? That she trusted him? That she had grown to esteem him?

It was all well and good, but it wasn't enough. She understood Tyrion better than he thought she did, and she knew what words he was longing to hear from her. She didn't know, however, whether she would be able to say them.


	13. Chapter 13

They continued up the twisted road into the mountains, and all was the same every day - the still-icy cold and the breathtaking sights, the sparse food and saddle sores, Jorah Mormont's rude remarks and sullen silences. It was diverting, however, when one night Torgud had tried to crawl under Elma's furs, and earned himself a brilliant black eye, just as the one he had given Mormont. The wildling man became more careful after that, and made his compliments and flattery to Elma from a respectful distance. The spearwife, though probably not out of any particular virtue, was proving immune to his charms.

Although no one bothered to inform Tyrion as to the expected duration of their journey, he realized they must be getting close to their destination. The wildlings looked around as if seeing familiar places, and spurred the horses to cover greater distances every day, with the unmistakable air of people hurrying home. When he shared these observations with Mormont, however, he received no word of encouragement.

"We might be getting closer to wherever it is that they're taking us, Imp," said the Lord Commander, "but who told you that is a good thing?"

The wildlings weren't quite so threatening once they realized he and Mormont have given up the hope to try and escape. There simply wouldn't be much sense in that. Even if they had two horses, good weapons and armor and proper supplies, they would never have lasted in this strange and hostile land, teeming with treacherous bogs and wild beasts, without maps or any knowledge of the surroundings. Now Tyrion's biggest fear was that their captors would simply abandon them in the middle of nowhere as soon as they were done with them... whatever _done _would mean.

Strangely enough, he soon realized that Jorah Mormont was more afraid of the wildlings than himself. Tyrion was able to look through the scars and spears and roughly-sewn skins, and see people not unlike himself. Perhaps that was his previous experience with the wild tribes of the Vale. Granted, he did not get exactly friendly with their captors, but that might have been due to the fact that no one but Torgud spoke the Common Tongue. With the young black-haired warrior he did have a talk or two. In particular the wildling asked whether all of Tyrion's kin were as little-sized as him, and was quite surprised when he heard that it doesn't always work this way.

"What, you don't have dwarfs on your side of the Wall?" asked Tyrion.

"Might be we have. But the weak and deformed, we give to the gods. Kinder for them. Kinder for all."

_Is that so?_ Tyrion mused wryly. _In that case, I should be grateful for not being born to a wildling woman. I would have made a very ugly little sacrifice. _

One day, when the air was beginning to thin in Tyrion's lungs, they rode out on a cliff and Torgud gestured forward.

"Look," he said, "you ask, where we go. Here."

A valley stretched below them, narrow and long, and in it was the largest nomadic camp Tyrion had ever seen. He could notice smoke rising through holes in some of the tents, and there were cooking fires spread here and there. Herds of sheep and cattle walked around, grazing on the first blades of spring grass, and voices of talk and laughter and song rose high and far in the cold clear air.

"Big Spring Gathering," explained Torgud. Jorah Mormont snorted, breaking his determined silence.

"You call this spring? Snow is still six inches thick where we are."

"Ice on Milkwater cracks, we call it spring," grinned the wildling man, "and we make merry. You will see."

The slope down which they descended was so steep Tyrion feared their horse would break its leg and send him and Mormont crashing down, but all went more smoothly than he expected. When their party was down at the valley and began to approach the camp, a call rose and several men rode forward to meet them. Upon seeing them, Torgud's face split in a wide grin and he waved and yelled something in the Old Tongue.

The man who rode up to them in front of everyone could only be Torgud's brother; the resemblance between the two was striking, although this man was a few years older, and more somber. _And far more dangerous, _Tyrion thought. The man wore a cloak sewn of white wolf pelts, and on his back hung two crossed battle-axes of good steel seldom seen beyond the Wall. Bright and shiny, they caught the rays of the pale sun.

"What do you bring up, Torgud?" asked the man with the axes after they embraced. Although he spoke in the Old Tongue, Tyrion understood. He began to remember and pick up more of the language in the past days, although his captors had no reason to know that.

"Little man," Torgud turned towards him cheerfully, "here before you stands my brother, Torneg Two-Axe. You be careful around him, he uses these axes well."

"I shall remember that," said Tyrion. Jorah Mormont scowled.

"We took those two not far from the Wall," Torgud told his brother, and then added a few more words Tyrion was unable to make out.

"You are no crow," Torneg Two-Axe turned towards Tyrion. He spoke the Common Tongue better than his brother. "What would a little man like you do with a patrol of the Night's Watch?"

"Why, I lent them my bold sword and wise counsel," said Tyrion, but Torneg was obviously devoid of a sense of humour, because his only reply was a look reminiscent of Tywin Lannister.

"You, on the other hand..." Torneg looked at Jorah Mormont, and his eyes widened in recognition and unpleasant surprise. "Why, you are the Bear of the Wall, the one who leads the Night's Watch."

"I have that honor," Mormont replied with icy courtesy. Torneg rounded on his brother with a furious look.

"Why did you bring him? You were told not to touch the crows!"

"He fought," Torgud said defensively, "I had to either take him along, or kill him."

"You would have done better to slit his throat, Torgud. What are we to do with him now that he saw our camp?"

"No one said he will be allowed to leave," Torgud pointed out.

"True," agreed Torneg. Jorah Mormont, unable to comprehend a word of what the wildlings were saying, stared blankly from one to the other.

"Well," said Two-Axe in the Common Tongue again, "it so happens that our king asked that every man who has crossed the Wall and does not wear a black cloak be brought before him. I am sure he will be interested in seeing the two of you."

"King?" _There it is, _Tyrion thought. _My ears did not deceive me after all. _But as far as he knew, no one styled himself King-beyond-the-Wall since Mance Rayder. "Which king?" he asked.

"One who will be greater than them all," replied Torneg Two-Axe with a dark smile. "Unbind their hands," he told his brother, switching to the Old Tongue again. The wildling's knife cut through the ropes that bound his wrists, and Tyrion let out a groan of relief as he massaged the angry red patches of chaffed skin. Beside him, Mormont was stretching and flexing his arms.

"Beware," said Torneg, "you are in our camp now, and every eye will be upon you. If you set so much as a toe out of the boundaries of these tents, you will be killed. Neither would I try to escape if I were you. The land is wide and wild, and you will never find your way back to the Wall alone. You will end up as a shadowcat's supper, or else you will get sucked into a salty marsh and drown, or simply lose your way and perish of hunger and cold."

"You make it all sound so daunting," said Tyrion, "and yet, what awaits us here? What do you intend to do with us?"

"That," said Torgud, "is for the king to decide. We will take you to him now."

Tyrion and Jorah were led through the camp. Torgud, Torneg and Elma remained to flank them, whereas the other members of their group scattered in various directions. People threw curious glances at them as they waked by; some of the children dropped whatever they were doing and tried to follow them, but where shooed away by Torgud's barked command. Jorah Mormont seemed to be extremely displeased to be the subject of such attentions.

"They are staring at us as though we were part of a traveling circus," he said under his breath.

Tyrion let out a short, bitter laugh. "People have been staring at me this way since I was born, no matter where I went. I'm glad you have a chance to have your share of the experience, my lord."

Finally they were led to a tent that was larger than others, made of sealskins sewn together and stretched over long poles to form a conical shape. Torneg bade them to wait outside with Torgud and Elma, flapped open the skin that covered the tent's entrance, and ducked his head as he entered. A brief exchange of phrases could be heard, following which the wildling man went back out and said:

"The king will see you ow. Torgud, Elma, lead them in."

They entered. The inside of the tent was lit by braziers, and it took a while for Tyrion's eyes to get used to the dim, smoky space. He blinked several times. There were a few men in the tent, guards by the look of them, and in the center, on a pile of furs, sat a boy.

Tyrion's heart missed a beat, and then began to thump very fast. He couldn't take his eyes off the boy's face, and was only dimly aware of Torneg's voice saying,

"Kneel before the Son of Winter, the rightful king of both sides of the Wall!"

Dazed, Tyrion went to kne knee. Next to him, Jorah Mormont grunted in disapproval, but the butt of someone's spear sent him down to his knees all the same.

"Who are these men, Torneg?" asked the boy. His voice was not unfriendly. He could not be more than nine or ten. He had auburn hair and blue eyes - Tully eyes, just like...

"Southerners," said Torneg, "though I imagine they would speak better for themselves, and tell their own tale."

"Come forward," the boy told them, "I should like a better look at you."

They got up from their knees and took a few steps.

"My lord," said Tyrion in an awed voice.

"_Your Grace_," Torneg corrected him sharply, "isn't that what you call your kings down south?"

"Your Grace," Tyrion didn't argue, "do you know who you are?"

The question seemed to puzzle the boy. "Of course I do. Do _you_ know who I am?"

Tyrion took a deep breath. He could not be mistaken. "Rickon Stark," he said, "of Winterfell."


	14. Chapter 14

Sansa could almost hear her sister's voice echoing in her ears, mocking her. _They are going, and you are remaining behind, like some stupid princess in a stupid castle. _Yet what else was there for her to do? All the hopes of finding Arya and bringing her back home were now pinned on Harrion Karstark. She had to accept his help, even though she knew his offer to go forth in search of Arya wasn't rooted in sheer benevolence. Lord Karstark hoped to gain her gratitude - and her hand, she could not be blind to this. _Provided that I am truly a widow. He doesn't seem to have a doubt on that score. _

Harrion Karstark collected about fifty men in a very short time. His strength consisted of around twenty northern noblemen and knights, the rest were freeriders and household men - his own and of some lords who would be riding with him. On the morning he was due to depart, he stopped at Winterfell with his men to make his farewells.

"I shall bring your sister back, Lady Sansa," he swore.

"May the gods speed you on your noble task, my lord," she said courteously. She looked about her, at the men who were of the party. There were many familiar faces. _I hope I shall see all of them again... and Arya, too. _There was also one man... she never saw him before, she was certain of that, but it was as though his face was known to her as well - the thick black hair and bright blue eyes, the closely cropped beard that covered a powerful jaw, the square broad shoulders and muscular arms.

"My lord," she spoke to Harrion Karstark, "who is that man over there?"

"It is curious you should ask, my lady. After I sent word I am looking for men to ride alongside me in search of Lady Arya, he appeared and asked to join my party. Ser Gendry Waters, he calls himself. I am not sure this is his real name, but he makes an impression of a brave man and a skilled sword. I believe it will be good to have him with us."

After Lord Karstark took his leave of her and moved forward to give instructions to his men, Sansa made her way toward the black-haired young knight. _Waters, that is a bastard name. Could Arya have thought about this man when she spoke of the possibility of marrying a bastard? _

"Ser Gendry," she said. The young man turned to her in surprise and made a curt bow.

"My lady of Stark knows my name," he remarked.

"Lord Karstark spoke of you, ser," she said, "and told how pleased he is to have you by his side on this journey. But I... I have heard your name before. You are acquainted with my sister Arya, I believe?'

The part of Ser Gendry's face that wasn't obscured by hair or beard turned faintly pink. "I had the honor of escorting Lady Arya during part of her way home," he said.

"But you never stopped at Winterfell."

"That's so. When I returned, I... business called me elsewhere." _What sort of business, I wonder? _Sansa thought. "I knew your lord father too, my lady. From the time he was King's Hand. I was an apprentice smith at King's Landing back then, and your father called at that armorer's several times. He... expressed an interest in me."

_No wonder. _Sansa didn't doubt her father guessed who the young man - he must have been no more than a boy then - was, even without asking his name, which didn't tell much anyway. _King Robert's son. _It was told all Robert Baratheon's bastards looked alike; Sansa met one of them, a girl called Mya Stone, at the Vale. She had the same thick coal black hair and blue eyes as the man who was now standing in the courtyard of Winterfell. She wondered whether Arya knew as well, and whether Gendry's parentage meant anything to her. Most likely not; Arya made it plain that birth and station made little difference, as far as she was concerned.

Lord Karstark and his party left not long after, and Sansa stood for a long while and followed them with her gaze. She could only hope they would succeed in finding Arya and the men who had gone with her. She also thought that if her sister meets Ser Gendry once again, chances are that highly interesting proceedings will soon follow.

Winterfell, at least, was now livelier than before. Several lords went with Harrion Karstark themselves or sent their sons, and of those, some left their ladies in Winterfell, where Sansa generously offered them every hospitality. One of them, Lady Sybelle Glover, stood by Sansa's side even now, attended by her two young children.

"I should have been worried about my Robett riding off to go beyond the Wall," she said, "but as he goes with our noble Lord Karstark, I am as confident as I can be of their successful and speedy return."

"It was very brave of Lord Robett to add his efforts to those of Lord Karstark," said Sansa.

"Oh, yes. Robett is brave, but I daresay Lord Harrion is the bravest of them all... and so gallant besides," added Lady Glover with a knowing smile.

_They have all wed me to Harrion Karstark already, _Sansa realized with a prickle of annoyance. No one seemed to remember Tyrion at all. But could she blame them? For a long time, she didn't think much about Tyrion herself.

"It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that the fate of the entire North now rests upon Lord Karstark's shoulders," Lady Glover continued slyly, no doubt believing she gives Sansa the greatest pleasure by her allusions.

"I shall join you and the other ladies for the midday meal, Lady Sybelle," said Sansa, "now, though, I will go to the godswood, to pray for the success of our men."

"Oh, do," nodded Sybelle. "No doubt our valiant men covet your prayers, Lady Sansa... some perhaps more than others."

But on her way to the godswood, Sansa was detained by Maester Kaeth, who walked towards her with a letter in hand. She stopped in her tracks, and could hardly breathe as she asked,

"What news, Maester?"

"Nothing of importance, I fear, my lady. Castle Black sends word to let you know that all efforts of searching for your lord husband and Lord Commander Mormont have proved futile. No one knows whether they are alive or dead." _But they presume the latter. Could it be? Am I to continue in this suspense much longer? Come back, Tyrion. Come back and tell me what I am to do. _

"Thank you, Maester Kaeth," said Sansa.

In the godswood, the tears flowed freely down her cheeks.

"I know you said we must find it, Bran," she said, "whatever it might be. But did it truly mean Arya had to go herself? I am so afraid. She had only been here for such a short time that it seems like a dream. Now I fear I shall never see her again."

And with the whisper of leaves, she heard these words:

_She is almost there._

"Where, Bran? Where?" Sansa asked insistently, but her question went unanswered. The godswood fell silent.


	15. Chapter 15

Arya was beginning to lose confidence.

First there was the passage, black and endless, and although they had their oil lamps with them, she could feel the darkness closing in, oppressive and suffocating. They ate and walked and sat down and slept and walked again, all in the dark, and still the tunnel went on and on, sometimes straight and sometimes sloping up, at times tall enough for them to walk upright, at times so low that they had to go on all fours - and all this lasted for days surely, perhaps for weeks - keeping count of time was almost impossible without sun or moon or stars to guide them. Behind her back, Arya could hear the men grumbling. _They regret going down here with me. _She could scarcely blame them; she only thought it was fortunate no one decided to turn back, because the rest would surely follow him, and then she would be left alone in the dark.

And then they saw an opening in the tunnel, a spot of white light that grew larger and larger as they sped towards it, crying out in excitement - and before they knew it, they were clambering out, breathless and dirty and reeking with sweat, to a sunny plain where snow lay still as white and thick as in winter.

"Where are we?" someone asked. Arya looked around her, but couldn't answer. They were mountains on one side, and a small river, and evergreen forests where trees were still caped in snow... and to the south, something loomed immense and tall, although from the distance it appeared smaller than a hedge.

"The Wall!" gasped bushy-bearded Rodrick Cerwyn. "It is to the south! Milady, we have passed beneath the Wall, we ought to go south to Castle Black and ask them to open the gates for us, so that we can return home."

Arya frowned. "I didn't come all this way to go home," she said.

"Well, then, where would m'lady have us go?" asked another man. Arya had no clear answer to this; she had hoped that once they emerge from the passage, they will come across a path or a sign, something that would give her a clue as to what Bran meant for her to find, but there was nothing.

"We ought to go to Castle Black so that we may be supplied with horses, at any rate," insisted Rodrick. "We are on foot, it is madness to continue into wildling lands this way."

"I am going forward," Arya marched ahead, not daring to turn her head and see whether they are following her. But then she heard the men's footsteps, and breathed out in relief.

Her relief was short-lived, though. Days and nights passed, and still they trudged forward, up north, with nothing to tell whether they were going in the right direction - wherever that might be. Everyone was hungry, tired, disgruntled and worried. One day, at midday break, Arya sat a little apart from the others, so as not to see their mutinous glances and not to hear their discontented muttering. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Arya?" that was Ernan Poole, a pimple-faced youth with protruding ears. He had tried to my-lady her before, but she soon beat that out of him.

"What is it, Ern?"

"Arya, we must go back." She felt a strong urge to lash out, but he looked so apprehensive that she took pity on him. She knew it must have taken him all his courage to come up to her. "We can't go on any longer," he said nervously, "our supplies are dwindling, our strength is waning, and it's a miracle we haven't been attacked by wildlings yet. And... I'm sorry, but do you even know what you are looking for?"

"That passage was there for a reason, Ern. It must lead _somewhere_."

"Perhaps it did thousands of years ago, but it doesn't now. And the men won't agree to march forward much longer. You know that."

"Then let those who want to go home turn south," said Arya, "I am going ahead, even if I have to do it alone."

An uncomfortable expression appeared on Ernan's face. "I don't think you will be able to do that, Arya. Rodrick Cerwyn, for one, won't let you risk your life like that. He will take you back to Winterfell, even if he has to tie you down and carry you himself."

Arya was furious. "Is that what you are all whispering behind my back, then?" she demanded. She shouldn't be surprised, she supposed. She was a Stark of Winterfell, but she was just a girl... not the liege lord of the men who went with her. She was dependent on their goodwill.

All of a sudden, Rodrick came over to them, running. He looked extremely agitated. "Lady Arya," he panted, "over there! Look!"

Arya looked in the direction he pointed out, and gasped. A large group of mounted men was approaching; clearly, they have been noticed at last.

"Wildlings!" yelped Ern. "We must run, now! Let's split, that might confuse them!"

But Arya knew there was no chance they would be able to escape on foot. She unsheathed her sword and stood firmly, waiting to meet her fate. All the while, she didn't take her eyes off the riders. She noticed something strange...

"Look, Rodrick," she said, "they are flying a banner." To the best of her knowledge, wildlings most certainly didn't have banners. Rodrick squinted, and let out a cautious sigh of relief.

"By gods, you are right, my lady. A bronze disk on a white field, surrounded by flames. Those are the arms of house Thenn."

"Thenn?" Arya was confused. "I have never heard of such a house."

"No, I daresay you wouldn't. They were only recognized as a house during the Great War. Their lands lie far north to the Wall... I would say they are the only people beyond the Wall who aren't wildlings - well, not _quite_ wildlings, at any rate. And their lord is married to the lady Alys, of house Karstark. I hope this meeting bides well."

The Thenns rode forward, closer and closer... then stopped their horses right in front of Arya's group. They were clearly fierce warriors, although the shape of their arms and armor was foreign to Arya. Some of them carried steel swords and wore iron ring mail, but most had weapons of hardened bronze, and wore bronze helms and bronze chainmail, and carried shields made of cured leather. The rider in front, the one who looked like their leader, hailed them in the Common Tongue. His voice was thick with accent.

"Stark?" he asked, looking about him. "Arya Stark?"

"That is me," Arya stepped forward. The man's face split in a satisfied grin. "Good," he said, "we look for you."

"I don't know you," she said, puzzled. "Who are you?"

"Dagren, of Thenn. We knew you are around."

"But how?" Arya's curiosity was awakened.

"Birds come. Birds carry word. You tired, no horses, no food. Why you here, I don't know, but now better come with us."

"Where?" Arya asked suspiciously.

"To Thenn," said Dagren, pointing north and east, "if you not want someone else to find you."

All in all, Arya saw no choice but to accept the offer. Her men would not follow her further otherwise, and she would miss out on any slim chance of finding whatever it was that Bran spoke about. She gave Dagren a cautious nod.

The Thenns dismounted and started preparing a cooking fire. They had brought many good things with them, and cooked a fine rich stew of onions, carrots, corn and nice big chunks of fatty meat. The northmen - although their new companions insisted on calling them southerners - ate like only hungry men could, throwing all reserve aside, and then it was time to depart.

There were spare horses, which was all to the good, but not enough for their entire party, so some - the lighter ones - were forced to ride double. Arya rode with Dagren, her hands clasped around his thick waist. He smelled of leather and sweat and ale, but despite his gruff look, his speech was not unkind.

"You are spearwife," he nodded appreciatively, "I should want daughter like you."

Arya smiled. It was nice to hear such statements for a change. People didn't normally express their wish to have daughters like her. _But things are different here. Perhaps I would have done better as a wildling. _

After some days they have spent on the road, Dagren grinned wider than ever, and even let out an excited hoot as he gestured forward. "Look," he said, "this is Valley of Thenn! We are home!"

Arya stared forward. It wasn't a town, really; not even a village. Longhouses made of timber were strewn here and there among the newly ploughed fields, and herds of cattle grazed on thin blades of grass that sprang up here and there from the ground. There were some smaller huts, too, with smoke rising from their roofs... and as they descended into the valley, Arya saw people working in the fields, tending to the animals, felling timber. It looked like a prosperous country, in its way.

They rode forward to the longhouse that was the largest of all. It was enormous; not a proper castle or even a fortress, but there was no doubt it belonged to the leader of this place. Its doors had handles of polished bronze, and the banner of Thenn, white and bronze and flame, rippled in the air between two poles hammered into the ground.

Dagren dismounted and Arya followed his example, feeling slightly nervous. Her people felt the same, she could see. Now that they were here, they didn't know what they might expect from the lord of Thenn.

The doors were opened for them, and Arya, her men, Dagren and a few others of their Thenn companions entered with them. Others went off to take the horses to the stables.

The hall was dim and smoky and cavernous, and seemed to occupy most of the longhouse. There was a large hearth with a roaring fire, and a long trestle table with benches all around it. There were many people in the hall, chiefly women, busy churning butter or curing bacon or spinning wool. And one young woman walked towards them, balancing a young boy on her hip. The child looked no more than two years old.

She looked at Arya, and her face split in a smile of happiness and relief.

"Lady Arya," she said, "it is a relief to see you safe and whole. Be welcome to our hall and hearth. I am Alys Karstark, now mistress of Thenn."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady," Arya said politely. But Alys Karstark looked nothing like a proper lady, now that she came to observe her carefully. She wore a dress of plain dark wool, and her hair fell down one shoulder in a simple braid, unadorned with jewels. Her eyes were grey and clear, and something in her face looked almost familiar. It wasn't difficult to see they were kin, however distant. Arya decided she liked the lady Alys already.

"How did your men know to look for us?" she asked.

"Why, your sister Sansa sent a raven," said Alys. "She was anxious in the extreme when time passed and there was no word from you. My brother Harrion, sharing her concern, gathered men to look for you beyond the Wall and rescue you if such need arose. I daresay he will appear here soon enough."

Arya wrinkled her nose in displeasure. It was Sansa's doing, then. "I don't know how my sister could be expecting me to send word," she said, "and I don't need to be rescued."

"Of course not," Alys laughed easily, "you were only stranded in wildling lands, with no maps, horses or supplies... I think it is still for the best you ended up under our roof, Lady Arya. Now come with me, and I will tell someone to prepare a bath for you. You must be hungry, too, but fear not - the table will be laid out before long. The Magnar, my lord of Thenn, will be here soon."


	16. Chapter 16

Tyrion and Jorah were permitted free passage around the camp, after they had given their word that they would not try to escape. Young Rickon Stark listened very solemnly as they made their vows. The boy took his title as king seriously, that was obvious, and although he kept insisting that his countrymen were guests, not prisoners, neither of them was willing to put that statement to test by asking to be sent back home. Torneg Two-Axe kept a watchful eye on them at all times, sometimes personally and more often through his brother Torgud, and Tyrion knew they were walking on rotten ice. One wrong move could easily cost them their lives.

The boy was clever for his age, and Tyrion enjoyed his conversation. It turned out one wildling woman who was held captive at Winterfell spirited Rickon away to safety when the castle was put to sword by Theon Greyjoy. Rickon remained hidden among wildlings all the while, and was distinguished by them as the seed of Starks, who had the ancient blood of the First Men in their veins. It was the idea of Torneg Two-Axe, it turned out, that the northern boy should be made "king of both sides of the Wall", as he was now styled among the Free Folk. Tyrion frowned when he heard this. He liked Torneg Two-Axe less and less with every passing day.

"Torneg is my most trusted friend," Rickon said, oblivious of Tyrion's suspicion, "he is going to help me win my birthright."

"I assure you, you do not need any help," replied Tyrion, "the whole of the north is now allied with house Stark once more, and as soon as you set foot in Winterfell, you shall be proclaimed its lord."

"But I want to be _king_," said Rickon, "King in the North, like the Starks of old... and King-beyond-the-Wall as well. The gates of the Wall should always be open for me, Torneg says."

Tyrion decided it is best to avoid open argument. "Do you remember Winterfell at all... Your Grace?" he asked instead.

"I do, although I was very little when I left," said Rickon. "I remember Mother and Father too, and my brothers and sisters," a troubled expression passed over the boy's face. "I wonder if any of them are alive."

"Your sisters are now in Winterfell," Tyrion told him. Rickon brightened.

"Are they? Are they truly? Have you seen them, then?"

"Your eldest sister, the lady Sansa, is my wife," said Tyrion. He could tell the boy was surprised in the extreme, and for good reason. "Does that surprise you?" he asked with a half-smile.

"Yes - I mean, no, I just..." Rickon looked a little abashed. "Are you my good-brother, then?" he asked uncertainly. "That is... good to know. I hope we can be friends."

"I know Sansa will be overjoyed to know you are alive," said Tyrion, "if you would consider dispatching a message to her, at least..."

"My sister will know I'm alive soon enough," said the boy enigmatically, and that, too, left Tyrion with an ominous feeling. _Gods be good, this smells of trouble, all of it. _He resolved to keep an eye on Rickon. _If Sansa finds out I was near her brother but couldn't manage to protect him from that sneaky wildling chief, she will never forgive me. _

About a week after their arrival, the wildlings observed that it was Equinox, which merited celebration on a large scale. There was to be roast ox and roast boar and roast fowl, and enormous vats of strong beer and sweet mead, and the dancing and singing would go on until sunrise.

Tyrion accepted a slice of roast boar and a horn of mead, and sat watching the women dance, spinning and moving their bodies to a rhythm of drums as ancient as the beating of a human heart. He was tapping his foot, enjoying the spectacle. Although for obvious reasons he never danced himself, he always liked watching others sway to the sound of music.

The huge roaring fire was making the dancers hot, and some of them began to shed parts of their clothing. Liveliest of all was Elma, the scarred but nonetheless attractive spearwife. She took off her leather jerkin and remained in her doeskin shirt, which was only half-laced in front, allowing a glimpse of her firm round breasts. Torgud, inflamed by a quantity of mead and the sight of bare breast and leg, elbowed his way through the circle of dancers and joined Elma, but when he attempted to fondle her he received a punch that sent him straight to the ground. He landed clumsily on his arse, to gales of laughter from all the onlookers.

"You are wasting your time, Torgud!" his brother called out. Dark and solemn, Torneg made no move to join the dancing, and didn't even appear drunk. "Elma would sooner bed the dwarf!"

Tyrion made an effort to keep his face blank, although he did have a few choice answers up his sleeve. Torneg didn't need to know he understood. The less your enemies know about you, the better, and by now Tyrion was more than convinced that Two-Axe was an enemy. Instead, he slouched off to find Jorah Mormont. He saw the Lord Commander hunched over a cup of ale, and obviously in a very foul mood.

"What is the matter, my lord?" asked Tyrion. "Why won't you go and join the festivities? A celebration is never quite as merry without a dancing bear, you know."

Mormont glared at him with bloodshot eyes. "Bugger off, Imp."

Nonetheless, Tyrion settled on the ground beside him. "This Torneg Two-Axe," he said quietly, "is a nasty piece of work if I ever saw one. He manipulates Rickon Stark, and the boy isn't even aware of it. _King of both sides of the Wall... _unless I am grossly mistaken, the bastard is planning the largest wildling invasion the North has ever seen - and then he will seize the rule. Not openly, of course, but Rickon is young and gullible and puts too much trust in those who inflate his head."

Jorah threw him a sharp look. "Can you be certain that is indeed his plan?"

"No," said Tyrion, "but it damn well looks like it. And remember, I saw wildling scouts near Winterfell, although you were too pigheaded to believe me. I'll wager they came there to assess the situation, learn the terrain and gather knowledge that would help them in battle."

"We must do something," said Mormont, setting his cup aside.

"Like what?" Tyrion asked sarcastically. "We are two against, what, twenty thousand savages? Yes, my bold Lord Mormont, that should be a breeze."

"We could go," said Jorah, "we could go now, no one would notice, and..."

"Oh, yes," Tyrion snorted, "I am sure that would work splendidly. We might last two whole days before we end up in a shadowcat's belly or get buried under an avalanche of late snow."

"Well, then, what would you have us do, Imp?" snapped the Lord Commander.

"Wait," said Tyrion, "and bide our time."


	17. Chapter 17

Sigorn, Magnar of Thenn, was not at all what Arya imagined him to be. She expected to see a man who would be bigger, fiercer and wilder than any Thenn she had met so far, but Sigorn was not particularly tall or broad of shoulder, and he didn't possess a loud booming voice, either. Even so, there was an unmistakable steely hardness in him; he shouted no commands, made no fancy gestures, wore no finery, but people fell silent and stepped aside to make way for him when he entered the longhall.

"Our scouts made notice of your brother, Alys," he told his wife, "he will be here soon. It is thanks to his warning that my men knew to look for you," he turned to Arya, "very likely you owe your life to Harrion. Had you fallen into the hands of the Free Folk, I wouldn't wager on the outcome."

Arya said nothing. She supposed she should feel grateful, but she was certain Harrion Karstark intends to take her back to Winterfell, and this would be the end of her hopes to figure out the meaning of Bran's message.

"How many men does my brother bring with him?" asked Lady Alys.

"Fifty," said the Magnar.

"It will be crowded here."

"Let it be. A crowded hall is a merry hall. Of course, not all can sleep here. Some will have to camp outside, but it promises to be a rainless night, and we can make good fires and provide meat and bread and ale for all."

Close to sunset, Arya heard the sound of many horses galloping, getting closer, ever closer... then they stopped right outside the longhouse, and there was a great deal of noise and talking and dozens of people dismounted, and the doors of Thenn Hall were opened, and Arya's countrymen began filing in.

She knew some of them. There was Harrion Karstark himself, tall and stern-faced, with the sigil of his house embroidered upon his surcoat; there were lordlings and knights and squires and freerirders, and there was - there was -

_"Gendry_," she whispered, and then called out in a loud, clear voice, "Gendry!"

He stood before her, shuffling his feet and looking awkward. "M'lady of Stark," he mumbled.

Harrion Karstark listened to this exchange with an expression of obvious interest. "Lady Arya," he said, making her a curt bow, "it is my greatest pleasure to see you here, safe and whole." She acknowledged his words with a mere nod. "I didn't know you were acquainted with Ser Gendry," he added in a would-be offhand voice.

"We've met," Arya said vaguely, breathlessly. To her relief, Karstark did not pry further.

"My lady," he spoke to her again, "it is singularly fortunate that you were able to pass through these lands unscathed. Against all odds, no harm is done. Now you need not fear. I shall escort you safely back to Winterfell myself. Your fair sister has been most concerned. She will be relieved beyond words to see you again..."

But Arya shook her head stubbornly. "I have no intention of going back with you, my lord," she said. "There is... I believe there is something I need to find."

He frowned. "Where? Here, in this wilderness? What can it possibly be? Lady Arya, this is folly. I entreat you, come with me to Winterfell and..."

"Harrion," his sister interrupted him, "you must be weary, and hungry and cold besides. What say you to a bath before we sit down to supper? The bathhouses should be already hot."

"That would be good," nodded Karstark.

"Come, Styr," Alys picked up the child who was clinging to her skirts. "It is past time you were in bed."

While preparations for supper were being made, saddle bags unpacked and lines to the bathhouses formed, no one noticed how Arya and Gendry slipped outside. They walked to the area behind the house, where cattle was locked up at night and various items kept, and stood between the barn and the goat pen, facing each other. Neither, it appeared, knew what to say.

"I thought you have gone back to King's Landing," Arya said finally, quietly.

"I meant to," nodded Gendry, "but one thing or another kept holding me in the north, and once I heard that you were gone missing I... I had to come with Lord Karstark and try to help look for you."

"Well, here you are," said Ary, and if she weren't such a tough wolf girl, it could be imagined that her voice quivered. "And now what?"

"And now I'm thinking that perhaps I shouldn't have come after all," said Gendry, looking at her sideways. Arya gave him a sharp shove.

"You are so_ stupid_," she said fiercely.

If she meant to provoke him, it didn't work. Gendry's face was quite serious, and he did not look remotely abashed. "I couldn't leave you behind," he went on, getting hold of her hand, while she tried feebly to wrench it free. "But nothing changed, Arya. I am still a penniless, landless bastard knight. I am not the sort of man you would be expected to marry - "

"Alys Karstark wasn't supposed to wed_ this_ sort of man, either," said Arya, gesturing towards the longhouse wall of thick dark timber and the turf roof. "She still seems happy enough here, though."

Gendry let out a hollow laugh and let go of her hand. "This Magnar of Thenn night live beyond the Wall and have no castles, but he still has his walls, his lands, people to rule over. I have nothing to call my own but the clothes on my back and this sword and helm I made myself."

"What are you going to do, then?" demanded Arya, her hands on her hips. "Are you going to leave again?"

He looked tormented. "If I haven't been able to do so until now..."

Steps sounded behind their backs, and they turned around at the same time. It was Dagren, carrying a heap of firewood in his arms.

"There you are, little spearwife," he said, "the mistress is looking for you. And you, lad," he turned to Gendry, "better go and bathe now, if you want hot water."

Arya threw one last glance at Gendry and walked away without a further word, but every step and every line of her body stated quite plainly and defiantly that this conversation isn't over.

The supper was more like a feast, especially considering where it was held. The food, though simple, was more ample than Arya had seen since she first arrived at Thenn Hall. There was thick lamb stew and roast boar and venison, and many loaves of fresh dark bread, and casks of ale and mead and even wine. Someone in the corner was playing a queer instrument, like a woodharp but with fewer strings. The sound was pleasant, and several people joined their voices in a soft, mellow song in the Old Tongue. Arya chanced a look at Gendry. _He drinks too much, _she thought as she saw him drain another cup of ale. But even if she wished to say something about it, he wouldn't hear her - she was seated right near the head of the long table, close to the Magnar and Alys and Lord Karstark, while Gendry was somewhere nearer to the middle.

Dagren walked over with a queer expression on his face, and whispered something in the Magnar's ear. Sigorn nodded and dismissed him, then looked at Arya.

"I have just heard something very intriguing," he said, "it appears that the Free Folk have captured your sister's husband, along with the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and are holding them both at Frostfangs."

"The Imp?" Harrion Karstark exclaimed. "He is alive, then?"

_He doesn't sound happy about this, _Arya noted. She shrugged. "The wildlings can have him, for all I am concerned," she said.

"He is still your good-brother," Lady Alys said reproachfully. "Besides, if he disappears beyond the Wall without a trace, your sister shall be in a very uncomfortable situation. She may waste years trying to prove her husband is dead."

"That is true," nodded Harrion, "I believe we are honor-bound to rescue him, and Lord Mormont as well. I shall take my men to the Frostfangs... and as many men of yours as you can spare, Sigorn," he looked questioningly at the Magnar.

"I can give you enough men to send the Free Folk running," Sigorn said after a moment's consideration. "Although I do have to say, they have been behaving queerly lately. This spring gathering at the Frostfangs is far larger than might be expected, and there have been rumours... rumours of a king they have placed above them, although none of my people have glimpsed the man."

"I am coming with you," Arya told Lord Karstark. He looked annoyed more than angry.

"That is out of the question, my lady," he said, "you shall remain here until we can come back and take you to Winterfell."

Arya unsheathed Needle. The light weight of the sword in her hand felt familiar and comforting. "This is good steel," she told Karstark, "it has never yet failed to keep me safe. I will go with you... and if you don't take me, I will go _after_ you. Unless you intend to keep me a prisoner?"

Harrion Karstark's voice was cool as he spoke. "Pardon me, my lady, but you are being needlessly wilful," he said. "You shall serve no purpose but to put yourself at risk and hinder us all. What would you seek at the Frostfangs?"

Arya merely shrugged. No one would stop her from going.

"You will have to be very careful, brother, if you meet a man who is called Torneg Two-Axe," the Magnar told Harrion. "He is a fierce warrior, and cleverer than you might think. In combat, he is a deadly enemy."

"I fear no one," replied Harrion, looking ruffled, "but I do hope it won't come to combat," he added with a nasty glance at Arya.


	18. Chapter 18

She was a small thing, and so weak and helpless she didn't even have the spirit to run away as they came across her. When Tyrion picked her up, he could easily feel her bones. He wondered how long it has been since she had eaten.

"Perhaps she lost her mother," said Rickon, reaching out and stroking the pup's head. "Or maybe her mother died, like Shaggydog's."

"We should take her to camp, and give her some goat's milk to drink," decided Tyrion, bundling the pup in the folds of his warm cloak. Torgud sniggered.

"You got yourself pet, dwarf?"

"I'm going to keep her for my wife, the lady Sansa," explained Tyrion. That only made Torgud, if anything, more amused.

"That your gift to your wife? Why should a woman want wolf... unless it's pelt?" he grinned malevolently. "This one makes very small pelt."

"You don't understand, Torgud," said the boy king impatiently. "This is no ordinary wolf, it's a _direwolf_, like Shaggy. All my brothers and sisters had direwolves once, but Sansa no longer has hers," he sounded sad. "Even if I hardly remember her, I will never forget this."

Once her belly was full of warm milk, the little wolf chose to curl up in Shaggydog's place inside Rickon's tent. Shaggy padded forward and sniffed suspiciously at the newcomer, but ended up giving her a cautious lick, and placed himself beside her, looking rather pleased.

"Good boy," Tyrion nodded appreciatively. "In a year or two, this might be your lady friend."

"Sansa's direwolf was called Lady," remembered Rickon. "I wonder how she will name this one. I can scarcely wait to meet her."

"If you wish to see your sister, all you have to do is ask Torneg to escort you south, isn't that so?" Tyrion asked carefully. _Though that may prove about as safe as poking a sleeping dragon in the eye. _Torneg Two-Axe made the impression of a man who had his own, carefully guarded plans.

"I..." the boy looked a little uncomfortable. "Of course Torneg would do as I ask, but he says now is not a good time to go south. Not yet, anyway. I trust his advice."

_This is something you might come to regret when you are a little older, _thought Tyrion, but there was no time to say anything. There was a sudden commotion outside the tent, loud voices, agitated talk. Rickon perked up, intrigued. "What's that?"

Tyrion poked his head outside the tent, looking for the source of the noise - and spotted Lord Mormont. To his surprise, Jorah, who was usually trying to avoid him as much as he could, was now running towards him, huffing and puffing in agitation.

"Look!" he cried out. "Look, Lannister!"

And Tyrion looked. A host of riders was approaching the wildling camp, and they were flying banners - one he didn't recognize, a bronze disk on white, surrounded by flames, and another black with a white sun.

"Karstark," he whispered. He and Jorah exchanged a glance. Both knew this might well be their best chance for rescue. "What is the other one?"

"Thenn. These are ancient people of the far north, related to the Karstarks by marriage. There are at least a hundred. I wonder - "

Then they heard the heavy steps and harsh voice of Torneg. "You stay here," he told the two of them, "if your life is dear to you. My king, you had better go back inside your tent," he told Rickon, who came to look at the approaching riders as well, his face showing a great curiosity.

"Why?" frowned the boy. "Those are Thenns, they are no enemy to us. I have never seen them in such numbers, though. I want to know what this is about. I'm staying."

Torneg gave an unwilling, resentful nod, and said nothing. Closer and closer the riders came, until their leader, a tall, dark-bearded man who wore the arms of house Karstark, stopped in front of them. By his side was a shaggy-haired Thenn warrior who looked at Torneg as though his face was familiar.

"Torneg," he said in the Old Tongue, "why reach for your axe? We didn't come to fight."

Reluctantly, Torneg removed his hand from the handle of one of his axes. Meanwhile, the Karstark man was eyeing Jorah Mormont. "So it is true," he said, inclining his head, "Lord Mormont."

"Lord Harrion," said the Bear, "we are more pleased to see you than words can tell."

It could hardly be said that the feeling was reciprocated by Harrion Karstark. His eyes, when he fixed them on Tyrion, showed obvious dislike, but Tyrion was too used to this to care much. Karstark's intentions were much more of interest to him than the man's emotions, and the northman's next words were music to his ears.

"You will no longer hold these men," he spoke to the wildling chief. "They will come with us, and no one needs to be harmed. Otherwise, you will have blood, Torneg."

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Rickon's boyish voice sounded loud and clear. "You can have _him_," he said, gesturing towards Mormont, "but Tyrion stays here. He is my friend, he doesn't want to go with you... do you, Tyrion?"

Tyrion opened his mouth to think of a tactful answer, but then, above the crowd he heard a girl's voice that cried out in such breathtaking emotion that every head turned towards her.

"_Rickon!_" She leaped off her horse and run towards the boy as fast as her feet would carry her, and with astonishment, Tyrion recognized his good-sister. Arya paid him no heed, though. She whizzed past him and flung herself at the bewildered boy, knocking the wind out of him and crying out his name again and again. "Rickon, it's me, it's me, you have to know _me!_" But it wasn't until Shaggydog bounded over, put his front paws on Arya's shoulders and began licking her face, that the boy looked at his sister with astonished recognition.

"Arya," he whispered, "Arya, is it... yes, it's you!" he shouted with glee. "But how... how is it that you are here? How did you find me? How - "

"This is my brother," Arya turned towards Harrion Karstark, her eyes shining with tears of happiness. "I _told_ you there was something here I must find, but I didn't know what!"

Lord Karstark appeared to be as puzzled by this statement as Tyrion was, but he did not attempt to doubt the boy's identity. He bowed solemnly to Rickon Stark.

"My lord," he said, "it is most astonishing, and doubtless we will all be fascinated by the tale of how you came to be here. But first, we will take you home, along with your sister and," he threw another cold, haughty look in Tyrion's direction, "your good-brother."

"Yes, of course," Rickon, red-faced with excitement, nodded vigorously. "Yes, now I've seen Arya, of course I'll ride with her and - "

"I think not," sounded Torneg's loud, ominous voice. "Your Grace," he addressed Rickon in the fashion of the Seven Kingdoms, "if you go with these men now, you will lose your birthright, they will see to that. You are not just a lord, you are King in the North. For your own good, I must not allow this."

"I should like to see you try to stop us from taking the boy," snarled Harrion Karstark, baring his greatsword. In a flash, both axes were in Torneg's hands, and his teeth were bared. And then - Tyrion tried to shout a warning, but he was a split second late - Torneg's perilously sharp axe blade was at the back of Arya's neck, and he pinned her down to the ground with his own weight.

"Sheathe your sword, or she dies," he barked at Karstark. A dangerous, brittle silence fell all around the camp.

"Let her go!" Rickon cried out shrilly. "She is my sister, you will do her no harm, release her! I'm your _king_, I command it!"

Torneg paid him no heed, and continued to hold Arya down. No one dared to move, but then there was a blur of fur and a snarl of fury, and Torneg fell with a gurgle and lay on the ground, twitching in agony. Blood was gushing out of his ripped throat, drenching the ground and Arya. Rickon wailed; Mormont lurched forward and pulled the dead man off Arya's body - and at that moment, the wildlings realized that their leader was dead, and all was in uproar. Swords met axes and horses reared and shields broke and a whole host of arrows went flying into the air, slaying indiscriminately. Tyrion seized Rickon by the scruff of his neck and dragged him off to hide behind a large boulder.

"Stay here, my lord," he ordered, panting. The shelter was safe enough, but he left it to go after Arya. _Bloody madness, that's what this is. The girl would have sent me to my death without a second thought. _But blood-soaked Arya was already on her feet, dodging blows with admirable nimbleness and piercing wildlings with her sword, ignoring Lord Karstark's commands to get out of the heat of battle. Mormont was fighting too, reaching out in all directions and giving deadly blows with an axe he picked off Torneg's body.

A thought flashed through Tyrion's mind, and although he cursed himself for a fool, he still ran back to the tent, where the direwolf pup was whimpering in fear. He picked up the little wolf and ran back to Rickon. The boy, he saw with relief, obediently remained in relative safety, crouching behind the boulder. Tyrion shoved the pup into his hands.

"Here," he breathed out, "look after her." _For Sansa. _"And no matter what, _stay here_." Then he leapt up to his field and ran back to the battlefield, picking up someone's discarded sword. _Have you missed the taste of blood, dwarf? Well, here's a chance for you to savor it again. _

The wildlings far outnumbered the combined forces of Karstark and Thenn, but they had no leadership and no discipline to speak of, and very shortly most of them turned and ran. Only a very small, subdued group remained, and they were promptly rounded up by the Thenn warriors.

Elma, unharmed but obviously shaken, walked quickly towards them. Her face was glazed with tears.

"Please," she turned to Rickon, "please, my king, help."

"What?" the boy didn't understand.

"In the tent," she said.

Torgud was lying in a puddle of blood, and it was only with great difficulty that one could see he was still breathing. One of the Thenns managed to stem the flow of blood from the wound in his chest, but the man still looked more like a corpse than anything else.

There was nothing Tyrion could do. He went outside and put an arm around Rickon's shoulders. The boy was crying, and Shaggydog whined and licked his hand. _We are of a height now, _thought Tyrion, _but soon, this boy will be taller than me. _"My lord," he said, "do not shed tears for Torneg. You saw for yourself what the man was. You are safe now, and going home."

Rickon looked at him. His blue eyes were wet, and reminded Tyrion of Sansa more than ever. _All the times I have seen her cry, even when she didn't know I was watching her. _"It's not only about him," said Rickon. "The people - _my_ people - so many died, and for what? And now Torgud will surely die as well."

"The healer says he has a chance," said Tyrion, "he will pull through, you'll see. We will take him to Winterfell, and Maester Kaeth will tend to him. Then he can remain at your service, or go back to his own people. He will make a far better leader than Torneg." _And there might be other benefits to his injury as well, seeing how Elma is fussing over him now. _

"Tyrion," a voice sounded behind his back, and he turned around.

"Do my ears deceive me?" he raised an eyebrow. "What happened to _Imp?_"

Arya was soaked in blood and sweat and her sword was still in her hand, and she was defiant even in her apology. "Thank you for watching over my brother," she said, "it appears I was... mistaken in you."

And then she mussed Rickon's hair, whipped around and walked towards a tall knight with black hair and blue eyes. Tyrion squinted. _I am sure I don't know him, but he looks just like... _he was too exhausted at the moment to spare any mental effort, though. He might think about it, and other things, later... on his way home.


	19. Chapter 19

Sansa set the account books aside with a sigh. Some way or another, the costs of timber for building were turning out much higher than she had expected, and she was at a loss when it came to figuring out how this happened. She was just no good at that sort of thing, she thought ruefully as she stepped out onto the balcony, from where the road leading to Winterfell might be seen. Or perhaps it was simply because her thoughts were so much occupied otherwise. For hours each day, she stood here on the balcony - if weather permitted - and looked at the road in hopes of seeing a column of riders under the Karstark banner, or else scanned the skies for a black speck of a raven. But there was nothing for a long time already, and this big empty ominous silence was beginning to wear on her.

She squinted. The view was slightly hazy today, but was that a group of riders in the distance? At that moment, however, she was distracted by a knock on the door, and the voice of Maester Kaeth sounded on the other side.

"Lady Sansa? May I enter?"

"The door is open, Maester," she called, and Kaeth opened the door and walked quickly in. He held an open letter in his hand, and looked very excited.

"My lady, I have received the most satisfying news, which I hope will put your heart at ease. There was a raven from Thenn, and Lady Alys sends word that - "

But the rest of his words were lost, because Sansa looked down on the road again, and gasped.

There _was_ a procession of riders - decidedly more people than went north with Harrion Karstark - and they flew not only the white sun on a black field, but the grey direwolf of Stark as well. Sansa gathered her skirts, ran past the Maester and sped downstairs. Like a bird on the wing she flew until, flushed and breathless, she found herself face-to-face with the people - northmen, _her_ people - and Harrion Karstark swept off his horse and made her a ceremonious bow.

"Lady Sansa, it is my greatest delight to bring about this reunion - "

What else he said Sansa did not know, because Arya bolted towards her, and Sansa gave a muffled squeal of joyous relief. Her sister wore faded leather and an old traveling cloak, and was feverish with excitement.

"He was right, Sansa, Bran was right, I had to go beyond the Wall to find..."

Arya trailed off and brought forward a boy with blue eyes and auburn hair. He was so much like Robb had been that Sansa felt faint. Her lips moved to form a question, but all air had left her lungs, and no sound came out. _It cannot be, _she thought wildly, but if she could still be doubtful about the boy, she could not but recognize the direwolf. As if in a dream, she stretched out a hand, and Shaggydog sniffed and licked it and wagged his tail. And then Sansa fell upon her knees and was laughing and crying and hugging Rickon, and asking questions the answers to which she could not yet take in.

It was not until she finally composed herself and got up and swiped away at her tears that she noticed Tyrion. She felt a rush of shock mixed with hot embarrassment for not having seen him earlier - but there were so many people, all moving around and making a great deal of noise and shouting "Stark! Lord Rickon!" - and Tyrion in his delicacy stepped aside to allow them proper space for a family reunion. Sansa got up from her knees and walked over to him.

"My lord," she said, "I praise the gods for your safe return." She extended a hand and Tyrion took it, and seemed to be uncertain as to whether he ought to kiss it or not. He didn't, but his fingers didn't let go of hers for a minute or two, and when he looked in her eyes Sansa thought she saw a mute question in his.

"We have something for you, Sansa," announced Rickon.

She was puzzled. "For me?"

Her brother grinned - the same grin that never changed since babyhood. "Elma, bring her here," asked Rickon, and a tall, slim, wild-looking woman with a scar on her cheek brought forward a bundle of fur and placed it on the ground. The next moment, Sansa realized that the bundle is actually a pup - a - a - but no, how could it be? They were so rare... and yet, _yes_, it was...

"I found her abandoned in the Frostfangs," explained Tyrion, "and thought you might like her."

Sansa took the little wolf in her hands. Her eyes swam with tears. She wanted to say something, but there was a lump in her throat that just wouldn't budge, no matter how hard she tried. The pup licked her face, but soon began to squirm. Sansa lowered her onto the ground.

"She wants Shaggy," explained Rickon, "see?" He beamed as the little wolf leaped to the big one's side.

"What will you name her, Sansa?" asked Arya, gazing wistfully at the pup, who was running back and forth between Shaggydog's paws.

Sansa paused in contemplation. Bran's direwolf had been called Summer, in memory of the passing season. "Spring," she said, smiling through her tears, "her name shall be Spring." _For the season that has just come, and for the path of hope. _

There was to be a feast later, and many guests needed to be welcomed and accommodated, and while Sansa was going upstairs to her chambers she recalled that there was a certain something she forgot to mention to her husband before making the arrangements for it.

She found him standing by the door to Arya's old room with a curious expression on his face. "I see my things have been moved," he said.

"Yes," Sansa replied, blushing slightly. "I - I gave orders to place them in my room. You see, Arya is back now and there are so many guests that - "

"I voiced no complaints," Tyrion interrupted her with a half-smile. She had the vague feeling, however, that he felt as awkward as she did when they dressed for the feast in the same chamber. Sansa caught Tyrion looking at her furtively more than once as she brushed out her hair, and in his glance there was such a mixture of admiration and caution that it disconcerted her and it took her longer than usual to finish her preparations.

Rickon was sitting at the head of the table, with his sisters on either side of him. Arya dragged her young knight from the bottom of the table, and forced him to sit by her side, under the mutinous glare of Harrion Karstark, who couldn't suppress his scowl no matter how much he tried to arrange his face into a polite expression. Sansa noticed her sister and the young man were holding hands under the table, and smiled. The direwolves sat at their feet, sometimes whining and begging for a choice morsel of food. The rejoicing was great. Once more, there was a Stark in Winterfell, a son of Lord Eddard, and many casks of wine were emptied that night in honor of young Lord Rickon.

Just as the feast was getting well into its loudest, most raucous part, Sansa noticed Tyrion get up and inconspicuously walk outside. Something she noticed in his expression compelled her to go after him. He stood at the courtyard, his head tilted up, and appeared contemplating the stars. Sansa walked towards him and, when they stood side by side, looked up as well.

"I never realized how much I missed the northern stars until I was standing underneath them again," she said quietly.

He nodded. "It is peaceful to lose oneself in the silvery gaze of the stars once in a while," he said, "especially after a good deal of noise, song and smoke. Tonight is a great night for house Stark, my lady," he added, "I believe congratulations are in order."

Almost imperceptibly, her hand found his. He looked surprised. "None of this would have been possible without you," Sansa whispered, "Rickon told me all that has happened. Thank you."

After the feast, on their way upstairs, Sansa and Tyrion talked but little, and when the door was closed behind them there was a definite air of tension. To alleviate it, and to give her hands something to be occupied with, Sansa sat down in front of the looking-glass and began to remove the pins from her hair.

"You can undress for the night here or in the adjoining chamber, my lord," she said, setting free a lock of auburn hair. "There is a washing basin too, but the water is probably cold."

When Tyrion returned, he was wearing a night shift, and seemed to be expecting her to say something, but she was somehow much less eloquent than usual. "It appears that my sister has changed her opinion of you," she eventually said.

"Ah," Tyrion gave a little laugh, "Lady Arya has finally woken to my charms. Who could doubt it would happen in the end?"

"I have told her before that she judged you wrongly," said Sansa, "based more on slander than her own perception. I never believed some of the vile things I have been told."

"Told?" Tyrion replied suspiciously. "About me?" She nodded. "By whom?"

"Littlefinger," she said, "years ago, when he still held me at the Vale."

"Well, no doubt the bastard wished to emphasize just what a horrible fate he saved you from when he abducted you from King's Landing."

Sansa nodded again, looking sheepish. "He told... he told me you gave your first wife to your father's guards to - to have their way with," she grew hot in the face, "and then set her aside."

Tyrion looked at her, and his expression was unreadable. He didn't speak. And didn't speak.

"It was not a lie," he finally said. Her eyes must have widened in shock and horror, because something prompted him to talk on. "I was thirteen years old. My brother Jaime and I encountered a girl on the road - a band of outlaws tried to rob and rape her, but Jaime drove them away and I was left to comfort the terrified girl. And I... she... I was very young, Sansa, and within the same day I ended up wedding and bedding her, not necessarily in that particular order. There was a traveling septon. He was drunk, I believe, else he would surely have realized who I am and ran for his life, fearing my father's wrath."

"Wait," whispered Sansa. "You told me of this... on the night we were wed."

"In passing," confirmed Tyrion. "I daresay you were not in the mood to listen back then, and perhaps that was for the best, for the last thing you needed at that time was another horrible tale. My father discovered us after a fortnight, you see, and forced another septon to annul the marriage. Then he told me it was all a lie, that the girl was a whore my brother purchased to... to initiate me into manhood. A _virgin_ whore, that was surely a rare and costly gift only a Lannister could afford," his mouth jerked bitterly. "Then he proceeded to that part our charming friend Littlefinger so kindly informed you about. He gave my wife to his guards, and they all raped her before my eyes. Then I did, too. My lord father commanded it."

He turned around sharply and went to a distant corner of the room, where Sansa's writing-table stood. He seated himself in the carved chair behind the table and sat still for a very long time, staring into space.

"You would think that is enough, would you not? But it doesn't end here. After Joff's wedding, when my brother Jaime took it upon himself to set me free, he confessed that he lied to me, on our father's orders. Tysha, my wife... she was never bought. It was a lie my father told, so that he would be able to make me cast her off."

Sansa's hand flew to her mouth. "He..."

"Or have you never wondered why I killed my father? Tyrion asked sharply. When she didn't reply, he dropped his face into his hands and sat still as a statue. "I managed to find her traces later, you know," he spoke in a muffled voice through his fingers. "She died in childbed nine months after we were wed, and the babe perished in her womb. I will never know whether the child was mine or not."

Silence fell in the room, horrible and thick and painful. Sansa stood motionless as Tyrion sat, the terrible scene pictured vividly in her mind. A boy watches his beloved being tortured, her screams and sobs of agony echoing in her ears while he is forced to look on. _The Mother is merciful, the Father just, the Maiden innocent, the Crone wise. So which of the gods allowed such monstrosity, and why?_

Tentatively, she made a few steps towards Tyrion, and laid a hand on his shoulder. When she was satisfied that he would not push her hand away, she slid it down his arm and linked her fingers through his.

"I am so sorry," she whispered. It sounded terribly feeble, but she didn't think she had ever felt sorrier in her life.

Tyrion looked up at her. "You are afraid of me," he observed with a crooked, bitter grin.

"No, I..." Sansa trailed off. No, it wasn't Tyrion she was afraid of, but the cold cruelty of a father who would do such a thing to his thirteen-year-old boy.

"I might be a monster," Tyrion went on, "but that is only because my own father made me so."

"No," said Sansa, more firmly. "You are not a monster. _They_ were - your father and brother and sister." She sat down on the floor, so that for the first time, she was looking up at him.

"I shouldn't have told you this," Tyrion shook his head, "I have only distressed you."

"I wish you had told me earlier," said Sansa, "it would have helped me understand... many things." There was pain in her heart, but there was something else as well as she brought Tyrion's hand to her face and let it rest against her cheek. He moved his fingers slowly down the line of her jaw, as if mesmerized, and the look in his eyes was reverent, but then he turned away, and the spell was broken.

"You don't have to pity me," he said, getting up from the chair. "I know you better than you think, and I know what you feel is _due_ to me. But you deserve a whole man, not a cripple. Because that is what I am," he spoke louder, "a cripple, Sansa. Oh, not my body," he hastened to add. "My malformed legs and the face that stares at me out of the looking glass is nothing to what I have here," he touched his chest, just above his heart. "When I was thirteen, I lost faith in men, in women, in my family, in gods, in everything that should have sustained me in this dark world. I couldn't trust anymore, I could not love... not truly, not the way I should have, and... and now my soul is darker than the tunnels under the Red Keep, through which I crawled to rid the world of Tywin Lannister and make my way to freedom."

He turned and in one quick motion threw his cloak over his shoulders, and opened the door and walked through it.

Ignoring the chilly draught that sneaked into the room through the open door, Sansa waited for him to return, but when he wasn't back within the hour, she donned her cloak as well and went downstairs. She found him in the godswood, where he was kneeling with his head bowed. When he heard her steps, he turned around. It was clear that he was not expecting her. Sansa smoothed her skirts and knelt next to him. There was no snow on the ground now, and the earth was cool and dry.

She took his hand again. "My - Tyrion," she said. He looked at her in surprise.

"What did you say?"

Sansa took a deep breath. The time has come, she knew, and decisions must be made. "I said _Tyrion,_" she confirmed. "_My_ Tyrion. Will you... will you say the vows with me again?" she blurted out.

Now he was looking at her as though she had gone out of her mind. "What vows?" he blinked in confusion.

"The vows. The vows we exchanged once in the sept, years ago," Sansa's voice was soft and low. "Will you say them again now, here in front of the heart tree?"

Now that he understood her meaning he looked, if anything, more astonished than ever. "This cannot be what you want," he shook his head.

"It is most discourteous to tell a lady what she can or cannot want," Sansa said with a brave but faltering smile. With an uncertain hand, Tyrion reached out to touch her hair, her cheek, her neck, very lightly. Such tenderness and love and pain and hope were there in his eyes that Sansa felt as though her heart would burst.

"... I, Sansa Stark, take you, Tyrion Lannister, to be my lord and husband, to love and obey, to honor and cherish, for now and all time."

"I, Tyrion Lannister, take you, Sansa Stark, to be my lady and wife, to love and protect, to honor and cherish, for now and all time."

Sansa smiled. Unlike the first time they were wed, there was no one in attendance, but still she sensed that they were not alone. Bran was watching, she knew, and so were her mother and father and Robb and Jon, and she was certain they were approving of her choice... because that's what it was now - _her_ choice. In a peculiar twist of fate, it just so happened that the man who was forced on her when she was half a child turned out to be precisely the one who was best and right for her, and she never wished to part from him again.

"With this kiss I pledge my love," she whispered, bringing her face closer to Tyrion's.

"With this kiss I pledge my love," he echoed. Their lips met, and they stayed like this for a while. A little later, they got up and, hand in hand, slowly began walking towards their chambers.


	20. Chapter 20

Tyrion's eyes fluttered open. He was feeling so pleasantly comfortable and warm that he was tempted to close them again, but a lock of auburn hair tickled his face, driving slumber away. His arm was draped over someone's waist, and that someone was Sansa. She was pressed close to him, and the feel of her delicate skin was a sweet caress against his own.

_Drunk, _Tyrion thought. _We must both have been well and thoroughly drunk. _He didn't actually remember drinking that much at the feast, but how else could he account for what happened after it? His mind retained no undisrupted thread of memory after Sansa came to him in the godswood. Just his mouth on hers, her body underneath his, warm and soft and yielding. They must have said something to each other, too, but the only word he could recall at present was uttered by Sansa, and it was "yes".

He sensed his pillow was wet. Strange. Did he cry in his sleep? He did not remember that either.

Sansa murmured sleepily and stirred, then lifted her head off the pillow and turned towards him. Uncertain, he returned her smile. Now that the haze of sleep was dispersing, he remembered other words she said to him as the door was closed behind them and she was undressing in front of him. She said that he was good and gentle and kind and brave, that she would have no other man, that she wanted him. That last part he found hard to believe, but her body responded eagerly enough to his own, and after they were finished, she whispered shyly in his ear, "I want you to do that often." Well, he was happy to oblige, once and twice and three more times that night.

And now morning had come and they were together in bed, naked as on their name day, and in Sansa's face he saw what he had long despaired of having.

"It must be late," said Sansa, observing the bright golden beams of sunlight that danced around the room. "Do you want breakfast?" All he wanted was simply to stay there with her, to inhale the scent of roses and lavender that lingered in her hair, to press her close to him... but he _was_ hungry. In fact, he couldn't remember being this hungry for a long while. It felt good.

His lady wife slid her long slender legs off the bed. She was conscious of his stare, he could see that, yet she made no haste in covering herself. Slowly, she slipped on her bed robe and walked over to the wardrobe to choose a dress for the day.

Breakfast was a subdued affair that morning, after the night's festivities. Only a handful of the guests were downstairs, and Arya with her young knight who looked so much like Robert Baratheon. Sansa sat amiably next to her sister and offered her a platter of fried bread.

"Are you going to marry?" she asked with uncharacteristic bluntness.

Arya looked startled. Ser Gendry began to stammer. "I," he said, "in the light of circumstances, I truly think it would be best..."

"Don't be stupid, Gendry," Arya spoke across him. "Yes, of course we are going to be married. As far as I can see, nothing is stopping us."

"Nothing indeed," sighed Sansa, peeling the shell off her egg. "Are you going to stay in Winterfell for the time being?"

"Yes," said Arya, tossing her short hair. "I'm going to stay with Rickon. He might be _Lord_ Rickon now, but he is only nine years old. He needs someone mature and responsible around him."

"Just so," nodded Sansa, and Tyrion could see she was fighting to suppress a smirk.

"And you will stay as well, won't you?" Arya asked with a hint of anxiety.

"For a little while longer," nodded Sansa, "then we will be going to Casterly Rock."

Tyrion sat aside his spoon. "Will we?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I know that is your wish," his wife turned to him. "We can return here later, stay as long as can be reasonably allowed... but I know Winterfell is no longer my permanent home. It was never meant to be. I always knew I will marry, and my place shall be with my husband. Besides," she added, "I find myself wishing to see all the places you told me about."

Back in their chambers, Sansa turned towards him with a frown. "Can't something be done about Ser Gendry?"

"What do you mean?" Tyrion didn't understand.

"Can't he be... legitimized? I think we all know whose son he is, and not one of the Baratheons left trueborn sons behind him."

Tyrion considered this. Perhaps it might be possible. Gendry was older than Edric Storm, the only acknowledged bastard son of Robert Baratheon. Gendry might well be the eldest son of Robert, and thus the rightful link through which house Baratheon might continue.

"I will see what can be done," he promised.

"Not for me," Sansa hastened to add. "Not for Arya even, you have seen what she is like, she doesn't care. But for Gendry - he is mortified that she should stoop so low for him, it is plain to see."

Not long after, they said their farewells to Torgud, who was completely healed by Maester Kaeth's ministrations, and was heading back beyond the Wall in the company of Elma, who never left his side since he had been injured. The wildling man, who has known Rickon since the boy was five, did not conceal his sadness in saying goodbye.

"Be well, my king," said Torgud, dropping to one knee so that his head would be level with the boy's, "and know that, should you ever come to the Frostfangs again, you will be received with honor by the Free Folk."

"You could stay here," said Rickon, trying to stem the flow of his tears, but Torgud shook his head.

"You must stay with your people, I know," he said, "understand that I must go to mine."

As they watched the figures of Torgud and Elma disappear in the distance, Tyrion glanced sideways at Sansa. So far, he has not broached the subject of setting a day for their departure. He knew it would have to be soon, though. He had received troubling news from Casterly Rock - the area was in disorder and much in need of a lord. He was wondering how he should begin discussing the matter with his wife... and then he heard her speak.

"I have ordered all our things to be packed," she said, "for the journey."

He was gratified by her consideration. Still, he felt obliged to say, "this can wait a while longer, if you wish."

She shook her head. "No," she said, "Winterfell has a Stark now, and all is well here. Your people need you... and so do I. I am ready."

Lost for words, Tyrion squeezed her hand in grateful tenderness. He looked around and knew that although he was going home, part of him would always remain here in the North, which he now loved as much as Sansa.

Then she was pulling on his hand, leading him away. Tyrion followed; it didn't much signify to him where they were going, as long as she remained by his side. Still, he was a little surprised to find himself in the godswood once more.

"I wanted to say goodbye," Sansa explained in a hushed whisper. For a few moments, all was still, but then Tyrion gave a startled jump - for he heard a voice faintly whispering... _"safe journey... be well... until we meet again."_

_"_What was that?" demanded Tyrion in a strangled voice. Sansa turned towards him, a dreamy smile on her lips.

"A spirit," she said, "the voice of Stark... of Winterfell... of the North."

- The End -

**A/N: I would like to thank all my wonderful readers who have stopped by to leave encouraging and inspiring comments as this story was being written. I am truly overwhelmed by the amount of positive feedback I received. My special thanks go to Mrs-Imp, Zirael07, Failed to de-anon, Yuna-Sakura and Queen AryaI.**

**Inspiration song for Tyrion and Sansa scenes was _Hengitä ihollani_** **("breathe on my skin" - Finn.) by Juha Metsäperä.**


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